The Other Has My Heart
by D Veleniet
Summary: Clara had promised to keep him hidden. She'd promised to stay with him. Navigating America in 1948 hasn't been so hard, but navigating John Smith's emotional ups and downs has. And can she keep her third promise and still stay safe herself? Human Nature AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yes, I know there are ten zillion Human Nature AU stories. But I've only read one – the incomparable bendingsignpost's version, so hopefully, this doesn't bare a resemblance to anything else. This just sprang up in my head and wouldn't let go. And FYI – the rating will change later. **

The room wasn't much. A small four-poster bed, a plain bedside table and a single lamp, with a tiny cupboard that barely fit her clothes. She supposed it was a fitting design for a country that had just seen the end of rationing, though. Fortunately, the TARDIS had been able to supply her with a wardrobe of the latest styles that year, perfect for jaunts into the city. If she ever made it to the city. The corners of her mouth turned down at visions of what her life might look like for the next three months.

Catching sight of her image in the full-length mirror, she was distracted by the woman looking back at her. Her hair fell in ringlets to her shoulders, framing her features nicely, and she puckered her red lips in an imitation of the pin-up girls. The dress was perfect for the era, and complemented her figure beautifully. In addition, it was professional enough but wouldn't be mistaken for any kind of uniform. She hoped. Sighing, she smoothed the lines of the skirt, giving it a bit of a twirl to let the fullness flare out. Yes, it was almost as though she were _made_ for this era. She'd blend in easily. Him on the other hand…

Another sigh, this time in trepidation as she glanced in the direction of his room. Giving herself a final onceover, she gave a quick nod.

"Here goes," she said to her reflection, setting her shoulders back.

Walking with purpose, she stopped in front of his closed door and knocked softly. "Hello?" Turning the handle, she peeked around the edge. "Are you awake?"

"_Rrrrnnnnnn._" He groaned, bringing a hand up to his head, which he massaged with his palm. He stretched and contracted his limbs as though he were testing them out for the first time. Which wasn't too far from the truth, of course. "Ow. Ow ow. OW."

Clasping her hands in front of her, she walked to the end of the bed, tilting her head in sympathy. "Ooh. Still in pain then?"

"Yes." He cradled his head. "You could say that. I feel – different, actually; I feel –" He raised his head to look at her and the pained grimace melted off his face. "Different."

Clara watched his eyes roam openly down her body, lingering in entirely new places that the Doctor had never lingered. "Clara…" He said her name like it was impossible, and Clara wondered wryly if that was the main component of his residual awareness that had survived the transformation.

She was hardly prepared for his gawking, though, so she cleared her throat to redirect his attention to her face. "So I've unpacked all my stuff, um…I was just checking on you before I went downstairs."

This information seemed to mystify him. "Right…" he began slowly, and she swore she could see the wheels in his head turning. "Because you're…staying here."

"Yes, I am," and she rushed through the next bit, hastily solidifying her non-service capacity role. "While I work on my book – to escape the city. All that noise, activity – harder to concentrate. More quiet here."

"Yes…" he still seemed like he was trying to catch up. "But you're also here to…spend time with me. Right?"

Ah, a more familiar relationship was being established. She breathed a sigh of relief, smiling at him. "Of course."

He tilted his head at her, then, looking at her like he used to when he couldn't quite figure her out. He reached out a hand, beckoning her. "What are you doing all the way over there? Come here."

She felt herself relax at this level of familiarity, slipping into it like a worn-in pair of shoes. She moved to his side and grasped his hand, smiling when he kissed it. It seemed that his residual awareness of her had done its job and was serving her well. And gentlemen kissed ladies' hands in the 40's - he was merely being chivalrous. She felt another sigh of relief escape her lips; this could be much easier than she'd anticipated.

He gazed up at her then, thumb drawing continuous circles, as if it could work out what his mind still couldn't. There was a thin haze of confusion over those green eyes as he searched for answers in her face. "Are we…" He moistened his lips, seeming to struggle with the question. "Are we going to be okay?"

There was such vulnerability there, such unabashed trust in her, she couldn't help the shine that rose to her eyes. No use in frightening him, though. So she gave him her warmest, most reassuring smile, the one she usually reserved to soothe a rattled Artie who'd just dreamed his mother was still alive. She squeezed his hand. "Yes. We're going to be okay. We're gonna be just fine." And she meant it.

He couldn't seem to contain the joy these words wrought. His smile was so bright and so unexpected, it almost knocked the wind out of him, and he had to take a few breaths to restore himself. It was so intense, he couldn't even look at her anymore, his gaze darting back and forth between her face and their joined hands. When it finally settled on her, though, there wasn't a trace of confusion or uncertainty. He practically glowed.

Just as suddenly, he smirked at her. "It was the ladder, wasn't it?" The question seemed to amuse him.

"Sorry?"

He rubbed at his head. "How I hit my head? Right?"

She went along with it, like he'd told her to. "Yeah, you – you hit your head pretty hard. When you fell. Off the – ladder."

He chuckled then, shaking his head at something. "Should've listened to you. You said it was ….wibbly-wobbly?"

She couldn't suppress her giggle at the familiar term, falling into their pattern of easy banter. "'Course you should've. You should always listen to me."

A veneer of…something settled over his features then. "Yes, well…we all know what happens when I don't."

It was a funny turn of mood, albeit a useful reminder that she would need to get used to this. His human moods. She seized on the opportunity to extricate herself, instead. "Well, seems like you might need a bit more rest, so I'll just – let you be." She gave his hand a pat, and then moved towards the door.

"Clara?"

She turned on her heel, her dress swirling around her hips. "Yes, D -….John?"

There was a mix of emotions on his face such as she'd never seen. Sorrow, hope and steely determination warred for dominance all at once, the impact visible in the rippling across his shoulders. "I'm going to make things right. I promise."

Was this how the Doctor felt when he heard emotional declarations he didn't understand? Her hands clasped together, and she resisted the urge to ring them. "Make what right…?"

His attention was now focused on something on the bureau, his lips in a thin line. "You'll see." It was uttered so softly, she didn't know whether it was aimed at her or not.

So, like the Doctor did when confronted with something he didn't comprehend, she breezed right past it. "Okay! Well, I'm gonna go work on my book now – did you um, need anything? While I'm up – tea? Glass of water?"

It was like a curtain had been lifted, and the sun shone through again. "Tea! Tea would be lovely. Thank you, Clara…*thank you_._*"

The intensity was not lost on her, and it gave her pause. Trying for another breezy laugh, she went for the banter again. "It's just tea, D- John. It's not a…" She faltered now, realising the banter might fail her if she had to come up with something relevant to their era. "Anyway – I'll be right back." She didn't look at him again, closing the door behind her before stopping to sag against it.

So…this may not be as easy as she she'd originally thought_. _The Doctor with human emotions, human mood swings. She had never considered that perhaps all those emotions he couldn't express or feel as an alien might bubble to the surface, finally be set free. Or maybe these idiosyncrasies were remnants of his war experiences – she didn't know.

Still, there was one thing that hadn't changed, she was certain. One thing he had carried over from being a Time Lord…

The Doctor – _John_ - was hiding something from her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or the idea from Human Nature/Family of Blood. They belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and possibly Russell T Davies. **

When she returned with the tea twenty minutes later, he was fast asleep, curled into a fetal position where she'd left him. Setting the tray down on the bedside table, she surveyed him in his slumber, her lips curling into a smile at how…_human_ he looked. She'd never discovered his bedroom in all of her wanderings (not even during the day she shouldn't remember), so she knew this was a rare opportunity, indeed. She couldn't help but reach out, pushing the hair back from his forehead where it was always flopped, even more boyish now with his mouth slack, hanging slightly open. And the way his clothes were rumpled merely accentuated this effect, reminding her of Artie again. She felt an unexpected pang at the thought. But she knew that this was temporary – three months – and that he could always return her to an hour later that Wednesday.

_What did you do with your boyfriend tonight, Clara?_

_Well…we went to America in 1948 to hide from alien assassins. _

_Oh, cool! Aliens were trying to kill you?_

_Yeah. And the Doctor had to become human, and I had to pretend to be a friend who was visiting him to work on a book._

_If you wanted to hide, then why did you go to America? That's stupid. _

_Because he likes swing music._

Clara could envision the conversation perfectly, down to Angie's I-hate-everything-tone. She smiled, shaking her head as she continued to absentmindedly stroke the Doctor's hair.

Glancing round the room, her eyes fell on his bureau. Remembering how his attention had focused on something there, she crept up to it, scanning for something out of the ordinary. Nothing stood out to her, really. Just an assortment of odds and ends: a variety of pocket squares, a wristwatch, a small cloth sack, a jar of pomade, a few tie pins. She'd felt a jolt of panic earlier, wondering if he'd mistakenly left out his sonic screwdriver or a mobile phone.

Suddenly he stirred in his sleep, and she jumped back, afraid to be caught. Regardless of the semi-established level of familiarity, it probably wouldn't help matters if he found her snooping.

She closed the door quietly behind her and entered her bedroom. Making sure her door was secure, she dropped to her knees, reaching for the parcel she'd stashed underneath the bed. A non-descript satchel contained her two most precious items: her laptop and the watch. She palmed the watch, running her fingers over the Gallifreyan symbols. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she closed both hands around it, cradling it to her heart. She could barely discern the faint whispers of the trapped Time Lord inside, and she bowed her head over it, kissing the cool metal. "I've got you," she whispered. "You're safe with me."

_8 hours earlier…_

"Is that safe?" Clara eyed the Chameleon Arch with distrust as the Doctor thrust the watch inside.

"Yes! Well…mostly. The process is completely safe; no harm will come to me. Other than re-writing every cell in my body." He fumbled with the settings, which was considerably more difficult with the way the TARDIS randomly lurched from side to side.

"And how is *that* safe?" Clara held onto the railing to keep from falling. "Also - are they going to keep doing that?" Another explosion jerked her to the right.

"Yes. That's why we need to hide, because otherwise they'd follow us. And - shut up, trying to make sure I don't fry my brain." He aimed his sonic screwdriver at one of the screws, loosening it and twisting it. "Now – quickly. Review everything so I know you've got it."

Spurned by his rapid-fire speech, Clara tried to match his pace. "Right. Assassins are after you, so you need to hide. But they're rubbish assassins, so they can only live for three months."

"Don't let their short lifespan fool you." He pointed a finger at her that promised peril should she choose not to heed his warning. "They may not live long, but they're deadly. Ruthless."

Clara nodded, trying to calm the butterflies that had started their panicked fluttering. "To hide, you have to become human because they hunt by smell. And, apparently, humans smell different."

Now the Doctor let out a snicker worthy of a twelve-year-old. "They really do, ha." He quieted once he saw her withering look, however. "Sorry. ..continue."

"We're headed to 1948, somewhere outside New York – because it's after the war and –"

"And swing music is cool!" He interjected gleefully.

"Right. The TARDIS will create you an identity – John Smith, possibly a veteran - "

"Yes, I was thinking Royal Air Force –"

She pushed on. "-moved to America to recuperate – TARDIS will build you a full story, integrate you into the setting, but I'm on my own. So – I'm a friend, coming to stay with you for…something. Haven't figured that part out yet. And apparently *that's* not out of the ordinary, either, because of –"

"Rosie the Riveter!" The Doctor exclaimed like they were old friends. "Women in the work force, finding their independence before they're pushed back into the kitchen. That's why we're not going to the 50's…"

"Oh . Speaking of kitchens, I will *not*be mistaken for your servant, your maid or your nurse."

"Ah. But –"

"Because there is no way –"

"Clara, you need to –"

"I will spend the next three months waiting on you. Maybe – what was her name again -?"

"Martha."

"Right – maybe Martha didn't have a choice since you picked both a time and place that made it *impossible* for her to be otherwise –!"

He looked appropriately chastened at this.

"-but if I'm going to be trapped in 1948 America for three months, *it will not be as your servant.*"

Now he did stop, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Clara, if there's one thing you need to know – one thing you absolutely *must* keep in mind…" His face was very serious. "Once I've defined the relationship, you cannot go against it. Otherwise, I'll think you're mad or worse and I'll leave or I'll make you leave." He cupped her face. "If there's one thing I learned last time, it's that…things never go exactly as planned." He leaned back as he winced at the memory, pressing his fist to his mouth.

"Learned that just from that experience, did you?" Clara deadpanned.

"Oi! And it wasn't my fault – it was…oh! One more thing. Since we're talking about the last time…" He bent to her level, his hands seemed to want to grab onto something in the space between them before settling for pointing at the ceiling. "Don't let me fall in love."

Clara's mouth dropped open. "I'm *sorry*? " She gave a little laugh, uncertain she'd heard him correctly. "Is that…something that's likely to happen?"

The Doctor had resumed his position by the Chameleon Arch, twisting knobs and threading wires. He was silent for a moment, whether to concentrate or avoid the question, she wasn't sure. "Probably not, no. But – I didn't think it would the last time, either. And things…well. Let's just say they didn't end well."

"Broke some poor girl's heart?" Clara teased.

"Yes." His face was grave.

"Oh." Clara was immediately serious. "Sorry."

He went on. "The man I'll be – the man I'll become – he'll die in three months or less. I don't want anyone to live through that again."

Clara swallowed as she considered the implications of this. "But – how do I – I mean…do I just make sure you don't meet anyone?"

He was pulling the arch towards his head, a grotesque imitation of a crown. "I don't know…you'll think of something, I'm sure."

Clara planted herself in front of him. "But – Doctor!"

"Yes?" He looked impatient.

She stammered. "What if…you don't know me? How do I convince you?"

His mouth worked like it wanted to smile. "I'll know you. I always have enough residual awareness of the person closest to me."

Now she walked up to him, closing him in a tight embrace. "You won't be you." It was meant to be a question, but she knew it was the truth. "Three months. I won't see you for three months." Saying it out loud, she finally felt properly scared. And alone.

He rubbed reassuring circles on her back. "I won't be me, but…certain things about me find a way of bleeding through. Especially with my companions." He pulled back, taking her head between his hands and laying a soft kiss on her temple. Then he gazed at her a moment as if saying his goodbye as well. "Thank you."

"I'm your impossible girl, remember?" She stepped back as he placed the arch on his head, tightening the screws into his skull. "I make the impossible happen." She kept her tone light, hoping that it covered her fear.

He grinned at her. "You are." He flipped a few switches, taking a deep breath. "Oh, and, uh…this hurts. Actually, it's excruciating. So…I'm sorry you have to hear this."

Clara's hands gripped the railing. "Hear what?"

The Doctor stared straight in front of him, eyes wide. "My screaming."

Clara shook herself out of the memory then, doing her best to block the next bits out. Hugging the watch, she laid her cheek against it, letting the coolness soothe her. She kicked off her shoes, flexing her toes and laid back on the bed. When she fell asleep, she was still clutching the watch underneath her cheek, keeping all that remained in the Universe of the Doctor as close as she could.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. **

**A/N: The song John is singing is a famous WWII ditty called "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree" by Glenn Miller and the Andrews Sisters.**

The first week was relatively uneventful.

John seemed to need a lot more time to recuperate, as attempts to get up to walk around for more than a few minutes exhausted him and sent him directly back to bed. Clara'd had no idea that the process would be so debilitating, and she hoped the effects were temporary. He also had very specific cravings for food. First, it was apples. He couldn't get enough of them, insisting that they were all he could think about. Then, it was yoghurt. Then bacon, beans, and, finally, bread and butter. Clara didn't mind, though she discovered that both apples and bacon were harder to locate than in modern times. She had to make a special trip to the butcher for the meat, and apples weren't in season so he had to settle for what she could find in cans and jars.

His moods were a different story. Though he was usually endlessly grateful for her assistance, there were times when she was making idle chatter and something she said caused a dark cloud to pass over his face. It was usually when she talked about being happy to help "while I'm staying here" or "might as well as long as I'm here." This triggered a somber expression, downcast eyes and something mumbled about "temporary." Was he just that lonely?

Another thing that hadn't changed, then.

But there were times he surprised her in other ways. One morning she came downstairs and found a bouquet of rose-hued peonies lying on the counter, tied with a red satin ribbon. Her face broke into a grin, and it was then that she noticed John's presence in the living room.

"Do you like them?"

She sniffed them in response, humming a sigh at the lovely fragrance as she walked into the room. "They're beautiful!" She smiled at him warmly, eliciting a similar expression on his face. "Thank you! Where'd you find them?"

He waved a hand dismissively, and Clara's heart jumped at the familiarity of it. "Just the florist down the street. He said they were hand-picked this morning." He paused. "I wanted to do something for you that…you've done so much for me, Clara – I didn't want you to feel like you were just my servant or nursemaid. Waiting on me hand and foot."

She pressed her lips together into a smile, effectively preventing a snicker on how _that_ residual awareness had leaked through. Her persistence had paid off, apparently, and she looked at him, hoping for some sign that he _knew _the reason. Something in his gaze…was he there, behind those human eyes? Ensuring that she felt comfortable, appreciated? That this was as easy on her as possible? She couldn't help but linger there, searching to see if there was anything – a flicker, a glint – _something _of the Doctor.

But the longer she stared, the less it seemed she'd find any kind of spark or twinkle. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite effect, softening John's features like butter melting, until it seemed that he might melt into the sofa or wind up as a puddle on the floor if she didn't stop. Ducking her head to break the eye contact, she smiled at the flowers again. "Well, they're gorgeous, thank you. Good to see you're feeling better." Turning on her heel, she walked back towards the kitchen, intent on finding a receptacle for them. "How did you know they were my favourite?" she called over her shoulder, retreating to the safe haven idle chatter provided.

When he didn't reply, she continued. "And did you eat breakfast yet? I was going to put the kettle on." She found a vase and filled it with water. She removed the ribbon and, on a whim, tied her hair back with it. It probably wouldn't stay, but she didn't care. It made her feel a little younger: ribbons in her hair, clever boys bringing her flowers. She giggled to herself, her spirits suddenly lighter than they'd been since they'd arrived there.

Arranging the flowers, she placed them on the kitchen table, admiring how they brightened up the room up a bit. It was then that she noticed he hadn't replied yet. Walking back into the living room, she called to him again. "John?"

The melted butter John had been replaced by something very different. Her heart jumped a second time as she recalled an achingly similar picture: the Doctor sitting on her sofa, his shoulders hunched under the weight of an unbearable burden, tears in his eyes as his fist clenched and unclenched on his knee. But when he raised those eyes to hers this time, there wasn't just pain but thinly veiled accusation. "How did I know?" He looked down, shaking his head. "You think I would forget – you think I wouldn't remember?" The accusation and offense was no longer veiled.

Clara could only gape at the rapid transformation, and tried searching her memory for any mention of peonies. Was there…? Yes, she remembered a time – a passing comment – about some alien species of flower and how they resembled peonies, her favourite. Had she mentioned anything about the connection to her mum – was that what he was upset about?

"I don't…" She scrambled for something to say that might serve as a plausible link to the memory he must've stored from their conversation. "I'm sorry – I forgot that I'd mentioned it to you."

His lips formed a thin line. "Mentioned?" He repeated, then laughed bitterly, shaking his head as if she'd said something unbelievably cruel. "Well." He let out a pained sigh, standing. "I'm glad you like them." He walked stiffly to the stairs, muttering over his shoulder. "I'm going back upstairs. That might've been enough activity for one day."

Clara followed him, still at a loss. "John –"

"I already had breakfast, don't worry."

Clara opened her mouth to protest again, but the sight of his retreating back stopped her. The sounds of his slammed door made her wince, then lean against the stairwell wall, absolutely gobsmacked. Her hand absentmindedly went up to her head, and, finding the satin ribbon there, she yanked it out. Walking resolutely to the bin, she let it dangle a moment before snatching it back, letting out an exasperated sigh. It wouldn't do to take her frustrations out on a perfectly fine ribbon.

So she set about her morning routine, resolving to vent her frustrations on her typewriter later.

The ruse about writing a book had been a hastily invented excuse to avoid being categorized as a servant, and she'd balked when she first started, wracking her brain for what she was going to write about. But then, it was mornings like these that provided her the answer she sought. She started it as a letter to the Doctor, like a journal entry with a particular audience, recounting one of their adventures, and how much she missed them. Yet, she found that it helped her cope: with the monotony of her newly domesticated life; with the loneliness of not being constantly surrounded by children or by a thousand-year-old alien with the exuberance of a child. And, especially, with John's moodiness. Soon she started writing it like a journal, cataloging all of their time together. It helped her sort through some of her older memories, like the ones from a thousand years ago, where he had a cameo and not a starring role.

Yet, if there was one thing she had discovered, it was that John was even more unpredictable than the Doctor. Because he could surprise her still, like he did the next day.

The first thing she noticed was the smell.

It wasn't a smell she was used to – a mix of butter, something sautéing, spices? It was intoxicating, and her stomach rumbled in agreement.

Making her way down the stairs, she was greeted with the sight of John, shirtsleeves rolled up, towel slung over his shoulder and…_singing?_

"Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me!" he sang in a slightly off-key baritone, stabbing at the pan with a spatula. "Till I come marching home!"

Clara stopped in the entrance to the kitchen, fighting the hope that he'd found the watch, restored himself and vanquished the alien assassins whilst she slept. That this was a celebratory breakfast because they were going home. _Home_. Her heart clenched at the thought. With the Doctor in the TARDIS would be home enough for her now.

Seeming to sense her presence, he spun around on his heel, and she felt her traitorous hopes rise. "Ah! Good morning! I was feeling better, so I thought I'd scrounge us up some breakfast. Are you hungry?"

She noted the mess of peels, scraps and scattered utensils on the counter. "You can cook?" was all she could manage.

"I know – I was surprised myself!" He turned back to the pan, which he jiggled a moment before flicking his wrist and sending the contents into the air, catching them with an easy grace that Clara knew the Doctor did not possess. "I must have learned in France…from a chef there. While I was stationed," he added, whistling again.

Taking a seat at the table, she noted how he had already laid out the flatware, with a steaming cup of tea at her place. She wrapped her hands around it because she honestly didn't know what else to do.

"It's been steeping about, oh –" He glanced at his watch, which was somehow securely fastened in the correct place so he didn't have to turn his wrist to check it. "- five minutes or so? You might want to test it, see if it's to your liking." He broke a series of eggs into the pan in rapid succession, making Clara wonder if he actually knew what he was doing.

Yet the concoction that was placed in front of her a few minutes later was utterly scrumptious, and she said so.

He beamed at her, blowing on his own forkful. "I'm glad you like it. I wanted to do something nice for you again." His tone was soft, and he was thoughtful for a moment while he chewed. "I was actually thinking that perhaps we could go into the city today…what do you think?"

Clara couldn't help the way her face lit up before she remembered how he'd practically staggered up the stairs the previous day after a short trip to the flower shop. She took a sip of her tea. "That sounds lovely," she admitted. "But do you think you're strong enough yet? Maybe we should wait a few days - just to make sure?"

With the way his moods had swung, she expected him to scowl and grow sullen. But instead, he chuckled, nodding in agreement. "Indeed – I was rather knackered after my brief sojourn out into the world, wasn't I?" He grinned self-deprecatingly. "Yes, makes sense. Let's see if I can make it without having to nap in the middle of the day." And he raised his cup to her, his smile as easy as if it lived permanently on his face.

Maybe instead of vanquishing the alien assassins, they'd found him and instead of assassinating him, had replaced him with a transmat or performed a body swap.

Laughing weakly, she tilted her head at him, as if the change in angle would allow her to better discern the effects of said transmat or body swap. "See if tomorrow's any different…"

He smiled brightly in response, missing the irony completely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I still don't own these characters. They belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. **

His odd behaviour continued into the next day, too.

Though he'd passed through the kitchen when she was sat at her typewriter before, he'd never commented on her work. Now he stopped after his trip to the refrigerator, plopping himself down across from her with a jar of apple sauce and spoon at the ready. "So…how's the novel coming then?"

He regarded her with such Doctor-like enthusiasm that Clara almost forgot this was John. "Oh, it's…you know." She was suddenly bashful. "It's coming, I guess."

He dipped his spoon in, withdrawing a helping heaping enough that she had to bite back a chastising remark she usually reserved for Artie. "So…" he began again, and his eyes sparkled with interest. "Tell me about it."

Clara had to look down, then, his expression entirely too Doctor-like for her. "It's about a woman," she told the table. "Who meets a thousand-year-old alien and…their adventures together." Her voice had gone quiet.

"An alien?!" He exclaimed, and he swallowed another mouthful. "Like one of those little green things with the –" he indicated with his spoon "eyes?"

Clara giggled, struggling to maintain a straight face. Oh, if he could hear himself… "No, actually – he's a…" She faltered, deciding it best not to name things that he knew. "…species of alien who looks human. And they travel together in his time machine, which is actually kind of alive, too." Despite their differences, she could only muster feelings of fondness for the TARDIS then. Even if it kept moving her bedroom.

"Ahh," he nodded, then raised his spoon again. "So he passes unnoticed. The perfect disguise." He leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. "He could be anywhere." And he raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Clara blinked, nodding in mock seriousness. "He could. He can blend in…sometimes." She was successful in holding back a snort.

"Okay, but why does she travel with him? This woman? If he has adventures, it must be dangerous for her. Does she *like* danger?" He swallowed another spoonful of apple sauce, and Clara wondered if he'd spoil his dinner at this rate.

Pursing her lips together, she considered. "Cause…she's always wanted to travel. And it's not that she *likes* danger, she just…she accepts it. Knows it's part of traveling with him. And…" She raised her eyes to his, hoping he could hear her behind the human face. "He's worth it."

"Ahh," he said again, leaning back in his chair, eyes bright with understanding. "It's a romance."

Something caught in her throat. "What?"

"Well, she takes all those risks, traveling with him for no other reason than she likes traveling and he's worth it? Does he return her affections?"

"No, it's…it's not like that – it's –"

"And why her?" he mused, waving his spoon. "If he's that old - *ancient*, really – why does he choose this human woman? What's so special…about her?"

Her cheeks flamed, but she sat up a little straighter in her chair. "Cause he'd met her before. Except - a different version of her. And she'd died saving him – twice. So he…wanted to find her again."

John wrinkled his nose, becoming interested in his apple sauce again. "No," he remarked. "You might have to rework that bit. You'll lose the reader if you make it that complicated."

But Clara was determined now. "No – see – he's a time traveler. So sometimes – he meets people in the wrong order. So he met two different versions of her that were actually echoes from when the current version got scattered across his timeline."

He folded his arms on the table, brow furrowed. "His timeline?"

"Yes." It somehow was vitally important that she convince him of this. "They travel to where he's buried, except it's not a body inside the tomb – it's his time stream. A…madman lures him there, then goes inside his time stream and undoes a thousand years of all the good he'd done for the universe. She sees that the only way to save him is to jump in after, so…she does. And that's how she gets scattered, and that's why he meets her those other times."

"I see…" He nodded enthusiastically. "It's an unrequited love story." He looked positively pleased with himself.

Clara's face was hot. "No." She shook her head emphatically. "No, it isn't, it's not like that – and anyway, *he* jumps in after her," she added hurriedly. "After she saves him, he saves her."

He moved his snack to the side and clasped his hands together, shaking his head like she needed to be caught up. "Clara, s-…" He stopped, biting his lip, before addressing her again, as animated as she'd ever seen. "Clara. You're describing a beautiful, fantastical *love story*. Boy meets girl, falls in love, but then *she dies*." He started gesticulating in his exuberance. "Boy's lost girl; boy looks for girl again; boy *finds* girl! Now girl falls in love with boy, leading her to sacrifice herself so he meets her in the first place. But boy won't allow girl to die for him again, and dies saving girl."

Could a person's body blush? Clara wondered, shifting uncomfortably. "They didn't die," was the only reply she could offer. "They both lived."

His grin couldn't have been dopier if he'd tried. "Don't you mean lived happily ever after?"

She had to clear her throat, then, as an unexpected lump had formed there. "No, it's – it's not –"

"Clara?" He reached for her hands, his timing almost laughably awful. "I'm only trying to help." There was an impassioned intensity to his words. "I think it's absolutely *brilliant* - I was worried there when you started describing it, at first – I mean, a science fiction novel about a woman who travels with an ancient alien – who would read that rubbish? But *this*…a time traveler's love story! You could even call it that – you'd sell loads more copies, too – especially to the women, who will probably be your audience –"

"John!" She had to close her eyes and take a few breaths to prevent herself from bolting out of her chair. She focused on the qwerty keys. "It's *not* a love story."

He looked slightly affronted. "Why not?"

She sighed. "He's an alien," she stated simply.

"And…?"

"It's not – he's not human, so –"

"Ahh…" Despite his poor track record, he seemed to think he had it figured out again. "Something different about him, then – no…*intimate relations* allowed?"

Was it possible that the alien assassins had infiltrated the house and installed a trap door underneath her chair that could open up and swallow her down right now? Would that've been too much to ask?

When she didn't conveniently vanish, she hid her head in her hands instead. "That's not – I haven't –"

"Is he a eunuch?"

"OKAY." She held her hands up, as if they could physically stop him from following this line of inquiry any further. "That's not something we're discussing. End of story."

"Fine," he conceded, hands raised in a show of defeat. He was contemplative for a moment, and he fiddled with his spoon. "So…" he began, his voice suddenly soft. "What about his being an alien prevents them from being together?"

He really was like a dog with a bone, wasn't he? _Why _would he…she studied him, noting how now he didn't look at her, seemingly locked in a staring contest with his spoon. There was a tension in his face – even in his shoulders – like every muscle was engaged, waiting for her reply…

Was this the Doctor, fighting his way through? Using the human mouth and the human brain to talk about their relationship? To find a way to have this discussion, one they would almost certainly _never_ have otherwise? Was this her only opportunity?

And…was she ready for it?

She took a breath, setting her shoulders again. "He doesn't share."

John gave a slight nod, like he might've expected this. "About?"

"Anything. She rarely knows what he's thinking – and she can only guess half the time about what he's feeling. He talks *all* the time, but doesn't really say anything." She smiled tenderly. "She gets him…she does. But she knows that there's so much he's holding back. So much he doesn't tell her."

"And does she?"

"What?"

"Share." He raised his eyes to hers now, his gaze so piercing it almost made Clara gasp. "Or is it all on him?" There was a twinge of unmistakable bitterness to his question.

Now who was she speaking to? Was the Doctor really that bitter? She sighed again, wondering if she could possibly sort through where the Doctor ended and John Smith began. Her thumb prodded at the space where her ring usually was. "She wants to," she admitted, her confession hushed. "She's afraid, too, I suppose. She doesn't know how to…"

"Open up to him?"

"Start. She doesn't know how to begin, or where. Or with what." The more she spoke, the easier it became. "Like – he's a thousand years old. So – she gets it – he's been married, probably dozens of times. Been with…lots of different girls. And he's not gonna tell her about all those times, and she *really* doesn't want to know, but – the important ones? The ones he can't let go of… And – he was in a war. And she never asks about it – even though she knows him – has *seen* him – better than anyone else in the universe. But she won't ask – cause she knows he won't tell her. So maybe…" Her smile was rueful. "Maybe she knows him too well."

John was quiet a moment, his expression unreadable as her words sunk in. "Or maybe…he'd surprise her." There was a fire in his eyes such as she'd never seen, and she felt her face grow hot again under the intensity of it. "Maybe she's too scared to ask, and so she tells herself that she can't have what she wants – what she *really* wants – because of him. When all she'd need to do…is ask."

She couldn't look away, then, no matter how much she told herself that this was not what it sounded like. His words hung in the air, powerful enough to open up doors previously unknown to her, and she could feel herself start to submit to their magnetic pull. The tension rose between them, the heat of his gaze intensifying with every second she was locked there, and, unwittingly, an image flashed through her mind of shoving the typewriter aside, reaching across the table so she could grab him by the lapels and –

She looked down, letting out a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding, as the promise she'd sworn to keep to the Doctor echoed in her head: _don't let me fall in love_. She'd make a fine job of that one if she let herself get swept away that easily.

"Maybe she is." She slid the bar on the typewriter to the right, letting the _ding!_ serve as a punctuation mark to end their conversation. Her fingers hovered over the keys as her eyes danced across the page of text she'd written before he'd interrupted her. Calliburn House, chasing the ghost that was merely a misplaced time traveler. Discovering that there were two monsters – _this isn't a ghost story; it's a –_

"It's not a love story," she repeated. Though for whose benefit – John's, the Doctor's – or hers – she wasn't sure.

"Well." He stood up and pushed his chair in. "If that's the way you want to write it…"

She gave him a quick glance, already apprehensive about the return of a random flare-up of anger or accusation. But there was only sadness there, the slump of his shoulders resigned. He gave her a long look before quietly putting away his snack items, slipping out of the kitchen.

As soon as he headed upstairs, she let her chin fall into her hands, letting out what she thought was a sigh of frustration. It came out as a wet hiccup instead, and pressing her lips together, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to cry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I still don't own these characters. All rights to BBC and Mr. Moffat.**

**Author's Note: The song John is referring to is "One Has My Name (The Other Has My Heart)" by Eddie Dean, one of the top 100 songs of 1948. **

Clara descended the stairs in slight trepidation the next morning, uncertain of what version of John she'd find waiting for her. But it seemed that the conversation of the previous evening – whatever he'd made of it, anyway- was forgotten as he greeted her enthusiastically, pressing a cup of steaming tea into one of her hands and a piece of toast into the other, before urging her with Doctor-like impatience to consume the two quickly or they'd miss their trolley.

She hid her smile behind her cup, basking in the familiarity. When she didn't wolf down her toast at super-human speeds, she was almost expecting a _Well, come *on*, then!_ – but instead, John just flitted about the kitchen, wiping down her crumbs with a towel, before pouring the rest of the contents of the teapot into a thermos and tucking that in a basket.

"Picnic!" He informed her with a grin, when she raised a questioning eyebrow at it. "Can't visit Central Park without it." Then he raised his hand to his face, whispering out of the side of his mouth. "The hot dogs are a bit dodgy."

Clara snickered, biting her lip to hold in a full-fledged laugh as she considered the various items she'd seen the Doctor lick, taste or consume that left dodgy New York City hotdogs in the dust.

When she'd finished her breakfast and they were situated for their day out in the city, she found herself holding her breath as John paused on the doorstep. It was that moment she usually loved: the one right before they embarked on their adventure, where he'd either offer his hand or grab it without asking, which had happened more and more frequently. Or, on certain occasions like in Victorian Yorkshire, would extend his elbow like an old-fashioned gentleman, which she'd clasp with a giggle, sometimes with both hands.

He seemed to sense the significance of this moment as well, looking at her like he was about to say something, body poised. Instead, he extended his arm stiffly, palm upturned in front of him.

"After you." His tone was overly formal, and it dampened the congenial mood considerably.

Clara tried to remind herself that he was being polite – true to the era, even - letting the lady go first. She still had to swallow her disappointment.

The trolley ride was uneventful, though she missed the running commentary that usually accompanied their journeys. But then the scenery distracted her, as the buildings became taller, the trees less dense, and the traffic more congested. Regardless of how John – or, more accurately, his mood - was that day, she resolved to enjoy her day out in the city. Even if she had to dump him in Central Park and explore the sites herself.

Yet she discovered that her enthusiasm was infectious to him, warming up their connection yet again. When she gazed up at the skyscrapers and marquis in Times Square, her smile wider and her laugh freer than before they'd landed in 1948, she could sense him orienting to her, like a flower to the sun. Navigating through the crowds in some of the touristy areas proved a bit trickier, and she forgot herself, linking her arm through his to prevent getting separated. He responded by gracing her with a warm smile and a brief squeeze of her hand. She felt herself begin to relax, even leaning into him at times when they were stopped at street corners.

He didn't seem to mind at all that she wanted to visit the shops, either. Though she knew she couldn't buy anything, she loved looking at the appliances – especially the "new" technology. She was quite titillated by a demonstration of a new brand of radio, as a shop employee tuned it to prove the "crystal clear quality" of the sound. The electronics shop seemed to be John's favourite as well, and he even took her hand and spun her around when "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree" came on, his grin easy again. Clara laughed delightedly, and found herself resisting the urge to lay her other hand on his shoulder so they might dance properly. John might've done as well: she noticed how his other hand twitched, like it was itching to pull her in.

Unfortunately, the mood was spoiled just then, as a country western song came on, the jarring change in sound off-putting and completely wrong for big band dancing. Clara scrunched her face, ready to take the piss or even demonstrate her best imitation of a twangy country western accent, something to make him laugh. But it was like someone had flipped a light switch on his mood again, and he let her hand go, his features darkening.

At least she didn't have to question if he'd been replaced with a bodyswap today. Though she wondered whether shaking her fists at the sky and tearing her hair would be overly dramatic. She wasn't sure.

Gritting her teeth, she suggested they take a break to eat, her tone falsely cheery. Forcing herself to be playful, she reminded him that they didn't want to waste the lovely picnic he had packed for them. This earned her only a half-smile and a nod of agreement, so at least she was not surprised by his brooding silence for their walk to Central Park and the majority of their meal. When her last-ditch effort to break the screaming quiet resulted in a mumbled reply, however, she turned to him abruptly, her patience gone.

"John? I don't know what's going on, but this is supposed to be our day out in the city, which you've been talking about *all week.* If you're no longer in the mood to be here – fine – but I'm gonna go, and I'm gonna enjoy myself, and I can meet you back here or someplace else or just back at the house at the end of the day. Okay?"

He looked completely taken aback at her outburst, but let out a sigh, closing his eyes. "Sorry." He shook his head. "It was…that song. It…" He let out a little puff of air, studying the blanket. "I hadn't heard it in some time, and…well - you'll think I'm mad if I tell you." His voice was quiet.

Though her ire had cooled to frustration, she was still at the edge of her patience. "What song?"

"One has my name."

"Sorry?"

"That country western song – the one we heard in the shop – it….'One Has My Name (The Other Has My Heart).'"

Now her frustration gave way to mild curiosity. "What about it?"

He glanced at her, hesitating. Then he swung his legs in front of him, lying on his back, his face to the sky. As if to avoid seeing her reaction to whatever mad thing on his mind. "Have you ever wondered – had you ever thought that…I *know* this sounds mad, but – that there are other worlds out there? Like in your story?"

Her mouth fell open. Whatever she'd been expecting, it had _not_ been this. The rest of her anger melted away in an instant, and her smile was wistful. "All the time."

"And that somewhere out there – there's another version of me. One where I was not born John Smith. And that other version of me…he has my name. My true name."

Clara almost reached for his hand but stopped herself. She shook her head emphatically. "Doesn't sound mad to me at all."

"And then…" His voice had softened. "I wonder if it's impossible for the two to exist together. Maybe only one gets the name. Maybe I'm the one who gets the heart. Maybe…you have to choose. The name. Or the heart."

Now she lay down next to him and did take his hand, nearly overcome with emotion. "Don't see why you should have to choose. Because what if…what if he has the name, but he finds a way to…affect other peoples' hearts? Maybe what he does for his name is what wins the hearts of others."

He was quiet for a moment. "So you're saying…that in order to win your heart, a man must live up to his name?"

Flustered, she dropped his hand, pretending to need it to adjust her position. She propped herself up on an elbow so she could see him properly. "Or maybe you just read too much into song lyrics." She hoped her smile was reassuring. "Isn't it about a cheating husband, anyway? 'One has my name (but the other has my heart)'?" Her tone was teasing, but John went rigid, his expression stony. He finally nodded, eking out a "Yes" before rolling over onto his side, back to her.

She wasn't sure if she'd ever get used to these abrupt changes of mood. Clara rolled her eyes. "John?" She laid a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched as though she'd burned him. What had she said now? Withdrawing her hand, she resumed her position on her back, and found herself counting to ten to calm her frayed nerves.

Ten turned to twenty as her mind raced, reeling from the impact of how close he had come to his Doctor-awareness. Was _that_ what made him so moody? That the two entities were constantly at war with one another: the Time Lord memories lurking beneath the surface, bleeding through and confusing him? She wondered if that's how he had managed to live so long – the alien sensibilities serving as an impenetrable wall against the raging currents of pain and suffering, swirling around inside. But becoming human had weakened that wall, and all of a sudden there were leaks, springing up at the most unexpected times.

Didn't mean she didn't want to smack him sometimes, though.

Soon she was restless and, seeing John was asleep, decided to go for a walk. Stretching her legs, she swung her arms a bit, feeling the heaviness dissipate. She was all too happy to explore New York on her own. Honestly, he made Angie look like a placid, even-tempered child. He was lucky she had spent a year with adolescents or she might have left his arse in the radio shop and let the chips fall where they may.

She'd only walked about twenty feet when her foot hit something oddly shaped and she slipped, making her windmill her arms to keep her balance and resulting in a loud _craaack!_ Regaining her footing, she stooped down to inspect the source of her near spill, discovering a small, wooden wheeled toy with a painted elephant on top, lying on its side. The wheel had broken off from the dowel and Clara had just scooped it up to examine it when a male voice stopped her.

"Sorry! Sorry – are you okay?"

She looked up to see a tall, middle-aged man with slicked back dirty blonde hair rushing towards her. He was followed by a tall, slender redhead with glasses, who in turn, was pulling the hand of a very cross toddler.

"Rory! Did you find it?"

The man – Rory – came to a stop in front of Clara, who was now holding the pieces of the toy up to him in apologetic offering. "Um, I think I may have broken it – I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it – happens all the time. Yes, found it!" He called over his shoulder before turning back to her. "I hope you didn't hurt yourself." His gaze was fixed on her ankle, and he had the air of someone who automatically checked for injuries. "I'm a nurse," he explained. "I can take a look if you like."

Something was nudging at Clara's mind, something…important…

The tall woman joined Rory, picking up her son and bouncing him on her hip, which seemed to help shush his wailing. "Is it broken again?" She tsked the little boy. "See? This is what happens when you leave your toys all over, Anthony. Someone steps on them and then they break." She patted his head, holding it her chest. "Sorry, ma'am. Are you okay? My husband's a nurse – he can help you."

Rory - English. His nose… Wife is redhead, Scottish. Something about never going to Scotland…

"Oh my God – Rory!" The redhead exclaimed suddenly, laying a hand on her husband's arm.

Rory started, too. "What? Oh - my God…"

"That's him, isn't it? I'm – not seeing things, that's him?"

"No, definitely not. Unless we both are, which is always a possibility."

Clara looked behind her for their source of their excitement, but found only…

John.

And then it clicked.

"Amy and Rory," she murmured in disbelief. "Amy and Rory!" She repeated, excited now, too. "Of course you'd – wait! Amy, hang on!"

Amy had already started moving towards him, and Clara had to run to catch her.

"Sorry, but you can't go over there. He's not…who you think." Glancing around, she made sure no one was listening. "He's not the Doctor," she whispered.

Amy's expression would normally have brokered no argument. "What do you mean? That's him – I can see him right there. He is the –"

"Shhh!" Clara held her hand up. "I know, I know – look…we're hiding from a group of alien assassins. In order to do that, he had to become human. He thinks he's a man named John Smith who was in the RAF during the war. He doesn't remember being…you know."

Amy visibly deflated, her demeanor forlorn. "He won't…remember us." It probably started out as a question, but came out as a statement.

Clara shook her head. "I don't think so. Although…" She considered the Doctor's words. _Especially with my companions..._ "Something about you might come back – he sometimes has these flashes like…like he's *him* again. Or he sometimes remembers things about himself. So…there might be something. But you can't talk to him about anything you've done with him. He'll think you're mad."

Amy looked Clara up and down now, her expression hard. "And who are you?" There was accusation in her tone. "How did you know my name?"

"Oh! Sorry – we've um…met before. Sort of. I'm Clara, but you knew me as – Oswin. I tried to help you escape from the Dalek Asylum."

Amy's mouth dropped open.

"Soufflé girl?" Rory exclaimed.

Amy stared at her suspiciously. "He said you were a Dalek when he met you."

Clara grimaced at the memory. "I was. And then I died. But he met me again, and…anyway, long story."

Amy shifted the toddler, who may have only stopped making a ruckus because he was sleeping soundly, to her other hip. "Okay, well – did he remember you, then? Who are you to him?"

That was the question, wasn't it? "Well, I've been his companion. But now I'm his…" She glanced over at him. "Friend." She turned back to Amy, who was still eyeing her distrustfully. "Or – someone close to him, I think." she admitted.

Amy turned to her husband, and something silent passed between them. Rory spread his hands.

"Look – Clara…we get that he won't know us, and that he may not remember us. But…we haven't seen him in almost ten years. And we never thought we'd see him again." His voice had gone husky, and Amy sniffled next to him in agreement. Rory placed a comforting arm round her shoulder. "Is there *any* way we can at least…just say hi?"

Her heart broke for them, their desperation not lost on her. Would it be that way for her, too, someday? Standing next to her husband, a baby on her hip, having to stop herself from running towards a familiar streak of blue on the horizon? Or mistaking every stalling car engine, every unidentifiable noise for the sound of the TARDIS? She felt her chest clench at the thought.

Biting her lip, she thought through the possibilities. The solution came quickly, and she smiled at how easily it would fit. "Wait here – I think I've got a plan."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I still don't own anything. All rights to the mighty BBC and Moffat.**

Clara shook his shoulder. "John?"

He didn't even stir.

Amy suppressed a laugh whilst Rory was openly chuckling. Clara flashed them a grin, whispering conspiratorially. "It's like he's been catching himself up on all the sleep he didn't get before." Amy's hand flew to her mouth, and she looked like she would've pointed and openly laughed at him had she been ten years younger.

Clara tried again, this time more rigorously. "John?"

He answered her with a loud snore.

Clara rolled her eyes, mouthing "sorry!" to Amy and Rory.

Amy moved forward a few paces and cupped her hand to her mouth in a loud whisper. "Try this: fish fingers and custard."

Clara wrinkled her nose in disgust at the culinary flavours that represented, but shrugged and leaned close to John's ear. "Fish fingers and custard."

It worked like a charm. John's eyes snapped open, darting this way and that as if chasing after the remnants of a dream. Settling on Clara, he gave her a half smile, before stretching his limbs, yawning.

"John – I um…I have to talk to you."

This information seemed to rouse him immediately, and he rolled over to a seated position, his face serious. "Yes?" He may have even looked hopeful.

"I met a couple when I took a walk. They told me about…how they'd lost someone in the war. And then they saw you, and they said you reminded them of that person."

John cycled through confused to irritated rather quickly. "Everyone lost someone," he responded gruffly. "Why is that my problem?"

Now it was Clara's turn to get irritated. "They only want to say hi. That's all. Then you can send them on their way." _And probably hate yourself for it later_.

"All right, fine." Letting out a very put-upon sigh, he got to his feet, brushing himself off. "Let's get this over with. Where are they?"

Clara was going to motion Amy and Rory over, but they had already approached, apparently unable to contain themselves any longer. She stood as well, motioning between them and was about to introduce them when John's expression stopped her.

He was staring, his mouth hanging open, his hands in tight fists. He looked like he didn't know whether to start sobbing or whoop with joy or hide behind the tree. Or possibly all three. And, clearly, having these reactions was a confusing shock. "Hello," he finally managed.

Amy and Rory were staring, too, their faces mirroring only his joy. "Hi," said Amy simply.

John seemed to realise he was staring, and shook himself out of it. "Clara told me you lost someone. In the war." His voice grew very soft, his expression far away. "I've lost people, too, and I know how hard it is. One day they're in your life, and the next: they're gone."

Amy nodded, smiling through her tears. "Yeah. And you have to deal with knowing that someone who was a *big* part of your life – someone who, maybe, has known you almost all your life – that you'll never see them again."

"And a lot of times…" Rory began, "you don't even get to say goodbye. That's…generally the hardest bit for me."

Amy took a tentative step towards him, her confidence growing. "Someone who's special. Who can never be replaced by anyone else. And you know that maybe they're okay where they are now, but you also kinda don't want them to be. Cause you want to be irreplaceable for them."

John nodded, and his voice had grown raspy. "But then you have to remember that you should be happy for them, wherever they are. Because you want what's best for them. To be happy. With their loved ones."

Amy looked to Rory, then, and something else wordlessly passed between them. "You…remind us of someone. We traveled with him for a long time. Before the war. He used to take us to the *best* places." Her smile was wistful.

John smiled sadly, then looked at Rory as if he were noticing him for the first time. "Were you…a soldier?"

Rory gave a little laugh. "Yes, uh…a very long time ago."

John spoke slowly, as if he were working it out. "Yes, I could see that. I don't know why, but you have the bearing of….a Roman."

Amy and Rory both laughed. "I get that a lot. Must be the nose," Rory conceded, pointing at it.

Now John's attention was back on Amy, his voice very soft. "And you remind me of a fairy tale I read once." His smile was tender. "About a little girl who waited in a garden for her imaginary friend to come to life."

Amy's smile was a watery bright. "And did he?"

John matched the brightness of her smile. "Yes, he did. Otherwise it wouldn't be a fairy tale." His gaze fell on the sleeping toddler as Amy shifted him to her other hip. "Ah. And this is?"

"Anthony. He's 2. And he's had a *lot* of activity today."

John reached a hand out and stroked the little boy's head. He lowered himself down so he could whisper in his ear. "Now, Anthony - you need to be very good for your mum and dad. You're all they've got now." Suddenly he jerked back, embarrassed. "Sorry- I don't know why I said that. It's not really my place."

"It's okay," Rory assured him. "Anything helps at this point!"

Amy looked to Rory. "Can you…?" She indicated the sleeping toddler, passing him to her husband in what had obviously become a perfectly synchronized motion. Then, she looked at John, taking a step closer. She hesitated, as if she expected something might happen. "Okay, well…I'm gonna hug you now."

"Okay!" John's surprise was evident, though possibly at his automatic acceptance and eagerness.

They embraced, Amy's sniffles and laughter muffled in John's shirt. When they pulled back, John tapped her on the nose, his face close. "Your glasses suit you. They bring out your eyes."

This seemed to delight Amy, and she reached for his tie, fingers straightening the knot. "And *you*…you should try wearing a bow tie. Nobody knows how cool they are." She pressed her lips together in a smirk. "I think you could definitely make them cool."

John grinned at her widely, before tilting his head to consider. "Hm. Bow ties, eh?"

They laughed then, and Rory approached Amy now, silently handing his son back to her.

Though he was slightly more awkward, he was no less determined. "Um…I'm gonna hug you now, too." Before John could protest, Rory had closed his arms around him, hands clapping John's shoulders. John's arms came up in a reflex, mimicking the motion. When Rory pulled back, he passed a hand over his eyes. "I always think I'm gonna be cool," he admitted.

"Okay, well…" Amy noted the toddler who was starting to stir. "We'd better go before he wakes up." She looked at John expectantly, but this announcement seemed to rob him of his words. He nodded.

Rory stood as if at attention. Then he waved a hand. "Goodbye. It was nice to…meet you."

John held a hand up in return, his face immeasurably sad.

Amy continued to look at John, as if waiting for something from him. When he only stared at her, she turned, pressing into her husband, as they started walking away.

"Amy…"

He seemed to surprise himself with speaking, blinking rapidly.

They turned round, Amy's face alight again.

"And Rory…"

John was walking towards them now, taking long strides before stopping in front of them. "It is, isn't it? I don't know how I know that, but…"

Now it was their turn to be speechless, their faces beaming as they gazed at him adoringly.

He placed a hand on each of their shoulders, leaning in. "I hope you both have beautiful lives. Love each other. And let's all promise that we'll never forget those we lost. That they'll be forever seared onto our hearts." They each grabbed for the hand on their shoulder, squeezing it, and smiled, nodding their agreement. On impulse, he leaned in closer and kissed each of their temples, lingering on Amy a beat longer than Rory.

Then he pulled back, his face awash in emotion. "Goodbye." He let them go.

"Goodbye," they replied in unison, so much happiness and sadness contained in that one word.

Then they turned again, and walked away, huddled close together.

Clara approached John slowly and wasn't surprised to see the tears trickling down his face. She placed her hand in his, and he gripped it in response.

"Always when you least expect it," he murmured, watching their retreating forms. Then he turned to her, his face wet. "Thank you. I feel….better." He pronounced the word in quiet amazement.

Clara grasped his other hand, her gaze steady and sincere. "You are…a remarkable man, John."

He smiled at her slowly, thumbs stroking her fingers. Then his eyes lit up in a way she hadn't seen since they arrived there. "Come with me." He clapped his other hand around hers in another familiar Doctor-like way. "I want to show you something."


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

**Author's Note: **Please note the rating change from T to M. You've been forewarned. :-p

Oh, she had missed this.

Hand in hand with him, running – well - walking as quickly as 1940's heels would permit, being enthusiastically led to some unknown destination. When they came to a stop in front of a small dock, she clapped her hands, almost jumping with delight. It was funny how, after all she'd seen and done, a boat ride on a lake still excited her. It was clear that John appreciated this about her, too, if his beaming response was any indication.

He rowed them in silence for a while, Clara just enjoying the gentle rocking from side to side, the heat of the sun on her face, the slight breeze playing with tendrils of her hair. She leaned back on her hands, nose to the sky and breathed a contented sigh. There was a change in the air – she could feel it. Whenever she caught a glimpse of John, there was only softness and a quiet adoration. She found herself returning his looks.

After a moment of held eye contact and shared smiles, he finally spoke. "Are you happy, d-…Clara?"

Her reply was automatic. "Yes." It had been a rollercoaster of a day, but in that moment, she meant it.

"No, I mean…are you happy with me?" He seemed to feel the need to clarify.

Normally this would've been the time to tiptoe, but something in his face told her she could be honest. "I am when we do things like this," she replied, trying to speak her truth delicately. "Or when you cook me breakfast – or pack a picnic – or dance with me in a shop – or bring me my favourite flowers." She smiled, hoping it reinforced the meaning behind her words. "Then yes, I am happy spending time with you."

John nodded, pressing his lips together in a wry smile. "But…?"

Clara took a breath in an attempt to sort through her thoughts. "When you do those things, and we're together then – I know you. I know what to expect – I know the man you are. But then…" She shook her head, a crease in her forehead. "I'll say something. Or I *won't* say something. Or I'll do something, or I don't and it's like – it's like that man goes away, and I'm walking on eggshells cause…I'm with a stranger. And then I'm not happy." She sighed, relieved from unloading the burden of that weight off her chest.

He was nodding thoughtfully. "What do you suggest?"

She made a little noise of surprise at this unexpected turn of the conversation. "I think – sometimes – you get a bit wrapped up inside your own head." She thought for a moment, recalling how easily he'd fallen into step with Amy and Rory, whilst completely unaware of the reasons. "That…if you just let yourself *be* instead of letting things stew, and not really doing anything about them – that maybe that would help?" She bit her lip, thinking carefully about her next words. "If being with me makes you happy, then – just be happy. Don't think about it so much."

His mouth worked as he considered her suggestions. "Even if…it's more complicated than that?"

Of course it was more complicated, but she needed to find some sort of stability. Some sort of place where she knew where she stood. She knew she would go mad if things stayed as they were between them. "Does it have to be?"

He bowed his head, a smile playing at his lips before he looked at her openly, his eyes clear with understanding. "No. I suppose it doesn't."

It was like the last of whatever had been between them had evaporated, and she could finally breathe easily. The rest of the boat ride passed in silence, but it was a relaxed silence, one where both parties were simply contented to be in the other's presence, no words needed.

When they returned to the dock, he slipped his hand into hers like it was the most natural thing in the world and walked her to the bridge nearby. Fishing in his pocket, he withdrew some change and dropped a penny into her hand before finding one for himself.

"Rather fitting, don't you think?" He bounced his up and down, an echo of a Doctor fidget.

Clara accepted hers with a smile, placing her elbows on the railing next to him. "What? Good time to make a wish?"

He smirked, stealing a glance in her direction. "You're right," he began. "You're always right – I should know that by…" He sighed. "Time to stop…focusing on everything that came before. Time to let go." As he said it, he opened his hand, letting the penny fall into the water below with a soft _plop!_

Clara cupped hers to her heart for a second, eyes closed, as she wished that she could see the Doctor again – that this would all be over with. Or…at least that this conversation was the start of something different between her and John, moving them to firmer ground, where she knew what was the Doctor in him and what was not. That maybe they could have what she'd had before. Something she wouldn't have to dread or test or wonder about. Opening her eyes, she let hers fall, too.

"Time to move on." He turned to her then, the reflections off the water making patterns on his face. "Do you want to know what I wished for?" His voice was very soft.

When she raised her head, she found herself looking up at him, closer than she thought he'd be. Lightly swatting him on the arm, she let a hint of flirtation creep into her tone. "Don't be silly, John. If you tell me, it won't come true."

He raised a hand to her face, adoration, longing, and…something she'd never seen before in his eyes – something that…

She didn't have time to parse out what it was because before she knew what was happening, his lips brushed hers, chaste and sweet and tender, like a question. It was a question she answered without thinking, melting into him, her hands stealing up to his shoulders – and she marveled that he kissed her like she was precious – like she was special, like he –

_Oh God._

Her thinking kicked in and she broke away, remembering her promise to him. To the Doctor. She frantically thought back on her behaviour from the day – how she had taken his arm, his hand, danced with him, talked about being happy with him –

She pressed her hand into his shoulder, leaning back a bit. "We can't." It came out as a whisper.

But he would not be so easily deterred. Bringing another hand up to her face, he lifted her chin. "Clara – you're just scared. I'm scared, too - of course I'm scared," he admitted, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. "But I know what you're feeling. You think I can't tell? You think I haven't noticed?"

Her heart raced for a different reason now as she thought back on what he might have seen in her over the last few weeks - if she had really been that transparent. She was a friend, visiting him, but…had she been acting like she fancied him, too? She could've kicked herself for daring to openly flirt, wondering how that must've looked. Best put an end to that, then. "I don't -"

"You think I haven't noticed the way you've been looking at me?" His voice had dropped, the tone more intimate. "Like you did before? It's there – we both know it. I *know* you wish it weren't. I know it would be so much easier for you." He ran a hand down the side of her head, his fingertips catching a strand of her hair.

There was that magnetic pull again, a force to be reckoned with – especially with him so close. She knew she wasn't supposed to; she had to stay strong –

But his mouth was on hers again, still soft but with a fraction more pressure, and it took everything in her to find his shoulders and push back, breaking such wondrously sweet contact. She closed her eyes, and called on every reserve of will power within. "We can't," she repeated. Would it help to remind him of their pre-established relationship? She hadn't wanted to – had refrained from doing so this whole time for…whatever reason, but perhaps it was finally time to call attention to that boundary. Before it was too late. "We're friends, John."

He would never stop surprising her: it seemed like he was fighting a smile, like she'd mistakenly said something funny and he didn't want to offend her by laughing. Shaking his head, he let his hands fall to her shoulders. "*That's* not what you want."

Clara grabbed his wrists, bringing them down in front of her, hoping that the change to more neutral territory would help emphasize her point. "But that's *all* we can be."

There was a moment of continued amusement, like he might've thought she was still joking. But then it gradually leaked off his face and his lips parted, all traces of humour gone.

"You…you mean it."

She sighed, closing her eyes, unable to look at him. "I'm sorry," she whispered. And she was.

He froze, becoming preternaturally still. Then, he seemed to slowly cave in on himself, like something was crushing him from above at an infinitesimal speed. He staggered back, then, breathing as though she'd actually struck him, glancing about him as if he was watching the pieces of his world crumble around him, mouth agape at the carnage. He almost seemed to forget she was there, but then when his eyes met hers, tears ready to spill over, Clara felt her own fill.

"John…" She reached for him, intent on connecting, saying something, saying - doing - _anything_ to make it better, but he evaded her, taking another blind step backwards.

"I…" He gave her one last anguished look before turning around and flat-out running.

"John!" Clara panicked, all earlier resolutions about enjoying the city by herself, "John-and-his-moods-be-damned" forgotten, and she tried to run after him. But she wasn't accustomed to 1940's heels, which, of course, weren't made for running – and especially not through grass. She almost tripped at one point, her heel sinking into a soft spot on the ground, and she furiously unbuckled the straps, ignoring the strange looks she received for the woman chasing after a man in her stockinged feet. Such efforts were to no avail: she might as well have been a Dalek with the way he outright fled from her. She finally had to concede defeat and, feet smarting, legs aching, chest heaving, she collapsed onto a nearby bench, burying her head in her hands.

Eventually, she replaced her shoes and limped her way back to their picnic site, fighting the hope that he might possibly have returned there. But the blanket was devoid of any creatures save a queue of ants, which were busy removing the scattered remnants of their lunch. And so she gathered their things and, giving New York City a rueful smile, caught the trolley back home. Letting herself into the house, she felt her heart sink at the emptiness that greeted her. She called for him, gingerly taking the stairs to see if he had retreated to his room - but it was silent as a tomb. So she changed into her nightdress, her ears perked for any sound of movement downstairs.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she felt the exhaustion from the day war with her ever-increasing worry. Soon she was up again, wincing as her feet hit the floor, pacing, watching the minutes, then the hours tick by. Finally, she dug out the fob watch again, clasping it as tightly as she could and shaking it. As if she could somehow shake the Time Lord inside, or he could somehow feel it, wherever he was.

"*Why* are you doing this?" she asked it, not feeling self-conscious in the least for interrogating a watch. "What do you want?" There was desperation in her voice now, and she pressed her forehead to it, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Why can't it be…"

But no, she wouldn't finish that sentence – she couldn't. Because…because whatever was going on, she was missing the Doctor, yes, of course she _missed _him, but it wasn't that she wanted…it was *John's* behaviour that was confounding and maddening and she was just exhausted and probably needed sleep and shouldn't waste her energy trying to sort through the utter mess of a day she'd had.

She tucked the watch under her pillow, her eyelids growing heavy as she stared anxiously at the clock. Her last thought before sleep overcame her was simple and stark.

_I hope he's all right._


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** Thank you for all your reviews, follows, favorites and lovely comments on this story – it means so much to hear that people are enjoying it! I'm going to get slightly evil with the chapter endings for a bit, but that will stop soon. Sorry – can't resist keeping y'all on the edge of your seats. ;) Enjoy!

Clara awoke with a start to...something moving – and breathing…and the creak of bedsprings accompanied by a weight in the bed. Bolting upright, she switched on the lamp and whirled to face a sight she could never have anticipated.

John's eyes were rimmed with red, as though he'd been crying for hours; his face looked like he'd scrubbed it one too many times, his features permanently drawn and crumpled. His hair stood up in all directions, like he'd raked his fingernails through. His clothes were wrinkled, shirt sleeves unbuttoned, and he'd lost his waistcoat and tie. "Clara." Her name was a pitiful squeak, his voice raw. There was alcohol on his breath.

"Oh my God – John." She couldn't help herself: she reached out in her concern, one hand landing on his face, the other on his shoulder, her questions tumbling out faster than she could stop them. "What happened? Where have you been? Are you okay? You look awful..."

He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, the weight so heavy she might've thought he was offering it to her to keep. Then he covered her hand with his own, turning to kiss her palm. Grasping both of her hands, he bowed over them, pressing his forehead to them and choked out something unintelligible.

This did not dissipate her concern in the least, and Clara stroked his head. "John…please tell me what happened. Whatever it is, it's okay. You're gonna be okay." She didn't know for whose benefit she was speaking now. Seeing the Doctor – even though he _wasn't, _he's _not – _but it didn't matter. She had never seen him this…_broken._

When he raised his head, she couldn't help but gasp. Gazing into his eyes, she saw two bottomless wells of despair, and she wondered if this was why he could never be human. One heart could never hold this much pain.

He cupped her face, then, clutching her head as if she could save him from drowning in this riptide of human emotions which threatened to pull him under. Clara held onto his arms, trying to find some way to ground him, to be a rock for him in his torrential storm. She looked at him steadily, poured as much emotion as she could into her eyes and tried to keep her heart from breaking.

"I lost…" He paused, seeming to struggle with the enormity of what needed to be said to release him. He searched her face, and Clara couldn't help the lump that formed in her throat. "I've lost…so much. So many…all of them…gone. And then…" He hiccupped a dry sob. "I lost you."

And now her heart did break.

She wanted to speak his name, she wanted to call out to the man hidden away inside this human form – the one whose emotions were spilling forth through this vessel. So she grabbed his face, pulling herself closer to him. "But you got me back. I'm here." She was almost in his lap now, but she didn't care. "And I'm not going anywhere. _Ever_ again." She hoped he could hear her declaration from in there.

It was like her words had struck a match inside: like there was light rising from the depths of his soul, light seeping into every pore, every hair follicle, until it reached his face, which now shone with hope. "You're not?" His fingers stroked tentatively at her hair, as though she were an ephemeral being, bound to vanish at any moment.

Now she laced her fingers through his, kissing the tips. "No." Her answer was firm.

Like a shot, he was on her faster than she could blink, his hands pressing her to him, his kisses no longer soft and tender like earlier but hungry, like a dam had been released and this was the flood. Clara let out a little yelp of surprise into his mouth, but she couldn't help but wrap her arms round his neck, her fingers stroking the back of his head and dipping underneath his collar. His tongue lapped at hers, darting in and out, and then he broke off from her mouth, only to plant kisses all over her face.

"I've missed you so much…_so_ much," over and over again, interspersed with, "Oh, Clara – my darling Clara." He found the space just under her ear and started a trail of kisses down her neck, all the while talking to her. "Do you have any idea how much I've been yearning for you?"

Clara couldn't control the sighs that escaped from her lips; she was _long_ past exercising any self-control or restraint and instead shifted back on the bed to allow him better access.

He was at her collarbone now, taking full advantage of the sweetheart neckline of her nightdress. He sucked and licked, his hands straying over her breasts. Suddenly he wrapped an arm round her waist and jerked her down the bed, laying her back so her head was on the pillow. Clara let out a little gasp of surprise, but it only served to heighten her arousal. She had no idea he could use his ever-flailing limbs like _that_.

His kisses fell more haphazardly, and his hands took on a frenetic energy, sliding along the top of her nightdress before finding her breasts, squeezing them and kneading them. He continued his narrative in between hot breaths. "It's all I can do to keep from taking you like this every time you're in the room," he murmured, and Clara shivered at the implication. "My nerves sing whenever you're around; I'm always aching to touch you." Unwittingly, images flashed through her head of the Doctor's constant violation of her personal space: grabbing her hand at every opportunity; standing close behind her when it wasn't necessary; his hands on her face; how he was always kissing her hand or her head or her shoulder. _But this is John, not – _it didn't matter. She shook her head to rid herself of such thoughts. He was saying things which – she just knew, it _had_ to be the Doctor leaking through. And so she drank in the sight of his hair against her bare skin, the feel of how it tickled her breast, and arched her back as his mouth closed around her nipple, letting out a throaty moan.

"Ohh, I love to hear you make those noises, Clara." His voice was velvety, in a register she didn't know it could drop to. "And yet all I want to do…" He peered up at her from where his face was nuzzled between her breasts. There was a wicked gleam in his eye. "…is try to see just how much happier I can make you." She felt his hand tickle the inside of her thigh, his fingertips teasing and stroking their way up. "How much *happier* can I make my Clara, hmm?"

Clara's moans had increased in volume, and her hips were now rocking to and fro as he continued to slide his fingers up her thigh, until they reached the edge of her knickers, ghosting his fingertips across her sex. This made Clara buck, trying to push herself into him more only to find air where there had been the promise of pressure. She let out a little noise of protest, and tried to see what he was doing. But his head was bent now, and she felt the rumble of his voice on her.

"I intend to make you very happy, indeed."

Then in one swift motion, her knickers were hiked down and his mouth was on her. His tongue proved even more agile than it was in speaking, as it swirled around her nub before darting inside her. Clara hissed her pleasure, tilting her hips for more friction and clutching the bed sheets. She could feel his chuckle right through her as he began an expert dance of swirling, licking and sucking that made her grab at his hair, the blankets, and finally the bedposts whilst her hips went from rocking to thrashing.

She could feel the heat starting to build, which finally turned her noises into words. "Oh _God…_ohmygod, _yes_ – please, yes!...oh God, yes…" She was losing herself, months (years?) of restraint finally, finally unleashed, and soon, she felt like he was bringing her to the edge of the universe again, showing her the stars, she was _running_ with him…

"Doctor!" She was so close, she knew she was close, she was sooooo close and –

He'd stopped. "What?"

She froze.

_No. Oh no…_

He was moving again, but this time up her body, towards her face. He hovered over her. "Clara?"

_No. Nonono._ She opened her eyes, afraid of what she'd find there.

His brow was furrowed but not in anger or in pain. Not in grief or confusion at the name. And not even a hint of recognition. Those green eyes radiated concern and his voice was gentle. "Are you okay?"

And then an earnest question:

"Do you need the doctor?"

Perhaps it was because her body was overwrought, having been worked to the brink of fruition only to be ultimately unfulfilled. Perhaps it was that she could only handle so many ups and downs in one day.

Perhaps it was the crushing realisation that this had all been a fantasy, the illusion shattered into a million pieces.

Whatever the reason, something inside her snapped.

Her hands flew up to her face, momentarily hiding her drastic shift in mood. But her traitorous tears spilled out from under her fingers and her body shook with sorrow instead of ecstasy as she curled her knees up, folding herself onto her side away from him.

He was, of course, in a protective, concerned mode now, and he prodded at her hands, then brushed her hair away from her face, then tried to physically turn her back towards him, murmuring soothingly albeit confusedly all the while.

What had once been intoxicating touches mere minutes ago had now been revealed as someone else's hands, and Clara flinched each time, trying to scrunch herself into an impermeable ball. Finally, she swatted at his hands, perhaps more forcefully than strictly necessary, and pleaded with him through her tears. "Please leave…please just leave."

He may have taken offense at her dismissive gestures, but she didn't care. She didn't _care_ – because the man who she'd comforted, the man who had poured his heart out to her, the man she'd basically welcomed into her bed – was not hers. She didn't care that he thought he'd lost her or why, or even why he had spent the rest of the day or evening drinking, or not – she didn't care anymore; she was _done_ with John Smith.

He was wearing the face of the man she loved.

And this only intensified her sobs because she had never allowed herself to think or feel it – had talked herself out of it so many times; had _convinced _herself that she didn't – had denied and denied, keeping it all at bay. _The trick is - don't fall in love._

John was relentless; she dimly became aware that he was pleading with her, urgency in his tone.

"-to call the doctor, Clara – please, just…just tell me if you're okay. Are you hurt? I didn't hurt you, did I? Did I hurt you?"

She wanted to look him in the face and tell him he had and to please leave her the _fuck_ alone, but she was afraid. She didn't want to look at him now. She couldn't.

"I'm okay – just…I'm tired, I just need to sleep. It's been a long…. Please..please leave me alone." She hugged the pillow to her chest, burying her face so she could continue to hide from him.

She heard him make some vague protestations, but eventually he patted her shoulder, gave her hand a squeeze and whispered some sweet something-or-other in her ear. Then the wretched, godforsaken man laid a kiss on her temple, which only made her hug the pillow more tightly, baptizing it with fresh tears.

When he finally left, switching off the light as he did so, she let it all out. The sobs overtook her body, and she wrapped herself up in the bed clothes, hanging onto the pillow as though it was a life preserver.

She couldn't stop herself from calling out to him, over and over, as though she could summon him back from his hiding place inside John Smith's body.

"Doctor…I miss you…please come back…"

And then, just his name. The name of the Doctor, like a prayer, whispered again and again, which at last soothed her enough to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

***See end for Author's Note**

She awoke the next morning and dressed hastily. Her sleep had been restless; her dreams relentless and cruel. Though she had no formal plan in her head, one thing was certain: she had to leave. There had to be another way to keep John under surveillance, make sure he didn't do anything stupid or irretrievable. She was not beholden to him, though he had pushed and pushed at the boundaries of their friendship, trying to turn it into something it wasn't. Though he seemed to have feelings for her, she just needed to push back. Assert her 1940's independence: she had every right to refuse his advances.

She was buoyed only by the iron-clad certainty that the Doctor would *never* have willingly put her through this.

Didn't mean she wasn't going to smack him once he was restored.

And…pray that he couldn't access any of John Smith's memories.

She was prepared to tiptoe past John's door, but saw that it was standing wide open, the bed carefully made with military corners intact. So he'd either slept elsewhere or risen earlier. She couldn't help but feel a slight niggling worry that he'd gone out and not returned. Well, of course she was worried: she wanted that body in perfect working order, not with a damaged liver. Or worse.

She found the kitchen and the living room empty, which actually prompted an audible sigh of relief. Relaxing into her morning breakfast routine, she had just sat down with a nice cuppa when she heard the front door open. Stiffening immediately, she became extremely interested in the steaming cup of liquid in front of her.

"Good morning." He was standing just beyond her line of vision.

"Morning." She dared one glance but did a double-take when she saw how impeccably dressed he was. Hair slicked back, shirt collar starched, even his hands were pristine, which held a small cloth sack. She hoped she wasn't staring at how handsome, hell – _dapper_ – he looked. "You look better."

"So do you."

She felt a blush heat her cheeks, recalling the state he'd left her in. But no, it wasn't her fault. She raised the cup to her lips and blew, stalling for time as he sat himself across from her. "John…we need to talk. About last night."

"Yes."

She took a gulp, feeling the tea scald her tongue. This was going to be harder than she thought.

Wrapping her hands around the cup, she steeled herself with a deep breath. "That can't happen again. It –"

"I know." He held up a hand, his expression determined. "I wanted to apologise for that. I should never have been there – that's been your room, your space. It was wrong – I was…doing it wrong. I'm sorry."

Clara bit her lip, surprised. Maybe she wouldn't have to leave after all. She nodded her acceptance. "Good."

John was struggling with something else, though, that was clear. His fingers twirled the strings of the sack in front of him nervously, a dainty kind of fidgeting. "Clara, I've been doing a lot of thinking. Especially after last night. Last night I…" He trailed off, passing a hand over his mouth. "I realised something. Something that had been missing." He pressed his fist to his lips, sighing shakily. "Yesterday I thought I could simply let go of everything, and push on…but I can't. There's something that I need to tell you before we can…move forward."

Clara took a sip of her tea, nerves reignited. "Move forward…?"

His hands returned to the sack, wrapping the strings over and through each finger, back and forth. "I need to tell you…" He looked up at her then. "About Melody."

She shook her head, not comprehending.

John's smile was something between wistful and bitter. "That was her real name. 'River' was only her code name."

Clara had not been expecting this, and, despite herself, found her curiosity piqued. The Doctor had never said much about his late wife, and she would've been lying if she'd said she hadn't been dying to know more. "Oh. River…?"

"My lover," he clarified, before beginning a list of endearments, each more cutting than the last. "My paramour. River, my dalliance; River…my undoing." He eyed her then. "You don't look upset."

Clara took another sip of tea. "You haven't said anything about her yet."

This seemed acceptable, and John's fingers continued to play with the sack strings. His voice was low. "I always tried to be worthy of you, you know. Tried to live up to the standards you set in the way you lived your life." He looked at her, his eyes soft. "During the war, during…those dark times, all I could think of – all that kept me going during those times was getting back to you. Seeing you again."

Clara shifted in her seat, trying not to appear uncomfortable. "John –"

"But –" He held up a hand again, signaling for her continued silence. "I did things." His expression clouded over. "Things I'll burn in Hell for – things…I'll have to answer for. Yes, it was a war; we were all doing those things. But a true war story is never about war, Clara. It's when you do those things…it's when you find it in yourself to do them. It's when you discover…that you're *good* at those things. It's when you realise that there was a part of you, hiding all along, waiting to be let out…a part of you that even *liked* those things."

His voice had dwindled to no more than a hoarse whisper, but Clara was rooted to her seat, tea forgotten.

John swallowed, pulling at the strings again. "And so…you try to convince yourself that you're lost. But it isn't that, no." His smile was grim. "It's that, at last…you've found yourself."

Clara was struck dumb with awe. The intimacy of what he was sharing – his lost self, the Time War, his struggle for redemption... She'd been inside his time stream and never been as close to him as she was now. She resisted the urge to reach for his hand, pressing them into her tea cup instead. She waited.

"And so what happens then?" He continued. "You find people who like it, too. You find others who enjoy…those things. You embrace that inevitable chaos of existence, find people who make no sense to you. Those who live their lives from day to day, who show up when they please, who promise you nothing. That was River. She accepted me. That chaos. She didn't set standards or have expectations. She knew what our lives were." He paused, the interplay of memory of emotion clouding his face. "I probably sound like I'm making excuses –"

"No." Clara's voice was softened by the stuck tears there.

There was that grief, that despair from last night, plainly on his face again. And Clara could have kicked herself for not caring – for not _seeing._ Not understanding how he was trying to reach out to her – this man, John Smith – not the Doctor, but _still_, impossibly somehow – her Doctor mixed in, too. His experiences, his past lives, his past loves – all jumbled together and stuffed inside a very human body.

"I'm not…worthy to ask you anymore, Clara." Though tears had formed in his eyes, he could not have sounded more resigned. "I can't ask you to accept me –"

"But I do." Clara finally reached across the table, grasping his hands. "I accept you, John. I always have. I *know*…I understand everything you've done. All the parts of you – even the ones you don't like. The ones you wish I didn't know about. All of you." And she meant it.

Tears fell down his face now as he gazed at her with that same expression from the previous day. "Will you have me then?"

Damn him for ruining the beautiful moment. Closing her eyes, she tried to find the strength to refuse him. "John…"

He withdrew his hands from hers, fumbling in the sack.

The sack.

The cloth sack.

The one she'd seen…on his bureau.

_I'm going to make things right…_

And all of a sudden, the scattered pieces of the puzzle fused together, the picture at once stark and clear.

Her heart started beating double-time as she watched him withdraw a small gold band from it, grasped between thumb and forefinger. He held it out to her.

"Will you be my wife…"

Her mouth went dry, her eyes glued to the ring. And then, the kicker:

"…again?"

* * *

***Author's Note: **Sorry for the short chapter, but hopefully it was packed with enough to whet your appetite for the next ones. ;) Also, I'm going to have company in town the next few days so I may not be able to update as quickly as I'd like to. I will absolutely do my BEST, though – I only want to be so evil. :-p Thank you so much for all of your feedback – it means so much to me!


	10. Chapter 10

***See end for Author's Note**

She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She could only watch as John took her hand, prising the fingers open and placed the ring in the center of her palm. He closed her fingers round it, an echo of a gifted TARDIS key from long ago. He fished inside the sack again, and Clara's eyes widened as he withdrew a second band, slipping it onto his ring finger.

Her brain caught her up, finally allowing her one small squeak of a word: "…*again*?"

This seemed to be all he needed, for he was out of his chair, kneeling at her feet, forehead pressed to her hands like the previous night. "Yes. Let me be your husband again. All I want is for you to sleep in our bed - by my side again. For your clothes to hang next to mine in our cupboard." He kissed her hands, gazing up at her, his eyes full of emotion. "My darling, I love you more than my own human existence. Please come back home."

This time Clara couldn't hold back the tears that sprang into her eyes, one of them slipping from her lashes onto her cheek.

John seemed to take it as a positive sign, and he reached a hand up, wiping it away with his thumb. "I promise I'll spend the rest of my life making sure I never make you cry again. But I can't do it when you're not here. So, my dear – my *darling* Clara, please say you'll come back. Come back to our home permanently."

Clara's mouth worked, but no sound came out as she grappled with all of the impossible words that sentence contained. Our. Permanent. Home.

Now he enclosed her waist, his head in her lap. "We can even try for a child again…"

And that was it. Her breaking point.

She stood up suddenly, upsetting his balance so he fell back on his hands. She stared at him so hard she didn't blink. Tears fell freely as she struggled to breathe. As she struggled to think. As she struggled to remember how to carry on living. She wanted to kick him. Smack him. Scream at him and beat him with her fists and tear his clothes and tear her own hair and…

"I…" she began, her voice no more than a breath. "I need…" She tore herself away from him, then, making a headlong dash for the stairs, taking them two by two, reaching her room and slamming the door before throwing herself onto her bed.

Hugging the pillow to herself like the previous night, her shoulders shook once more. But though the pillow was wet again, she discovered her shaking wasn't sorrow but anger. She desperately needed to yell and beat something and she was trapped in her tiny little room with nowhere to go but –

She stopped, remembering. She had another option. Could she risk it? Glancing wildly about the room, she dove under the bed, fumbling in her satchel. There was one more irreplaceable item in here…

It was then that she became aware of her other hand, closed tightly in a fist. Sitting back she opened up the hand and stared at the simple circle of gold. Holding it up to her face, she saw she had been clutching it so tightly that it had left an imprint on her palm, as though it would leave its mark before she chose to wear it. Which she wouldn't. She _wouldn't_.

But then – the Doctor. His words to her.

_Once I've defined the relationship, you cannot go against it._

There: the source of her anger. Well, that and –

_Don't let me fall in love._

Made a good job of that one, too.

Now she did clutch at her head, fingers digging into her scalp as she wrestled with reconciling the two. She cycled through all the equally mad replies she could give –

_Sorry, but I'm already in love with an alien trapped inside a watch. Looks like you, though. _

_I actually promised a friend that I would make sure you didn't get involved with anyone. _

This gave her pause. Because – he'd made her promise not to let him fall in love…but not for his sake.

_I don't want anyone to live through that again._

She _almost_ felt a smile tug at her lips as she considered what he'd been implying: if _he _fell in love, then surely the woman would fall for him, too. Because he naturally thought himself that irresistible.

Well - she was in no danger of _that_ happening. Except…

Except when he acted like the Doctor. Except when he said something that was Doctor-like, or shared a Doctor memory, or used a Doctor mannerism. All of which occurred frequently. Which was _why_ she'd let last night go as far as…

Smacking a hand to her forehead, she suddenly had startling clarity about what had transpired with John over the last few weeks. Why he had been so moody; why any mention of leaving or – God – saying they could only be _friends_ – or – even that silly country Western song which had caused his mood to take a nosedive –

_Isn't it about a cheating husband?_

She clapped her hands over her mouth now, realising how carelessly cruel she must've sounded. She was the estranged wife in his mind – left him over the affair with River (_that_ was something she'd have to parse out later) – and returned to take care of him and work on her book. But he was hoping to win her back, and so fell all over himself with gratitude, cooked her breakfast, bought her flowers (had her mention of their inclusion in her _mum's_ wedding bouquet somehow translated to a memory of _her_ wedding bouquet in his mind?), and when it seemed like things were going his way, he was happy, cheerful. Doctor-like. But when she made comments that indicated her stay was temporary or questioned his behaviour – he became upset, angry, frustrated – but never said anything because…because he thought _she _was the wronged party, and so he must've felt he had no right to.

All this time…all this time she thought she'd been the one dancing around him – but he'd been engaged in the same dance, constantly monitoring her moods, her words, too, to see if he was gaining ground. Must've done with the way he _insisted_ that the book she was writing was a love story – and his constant prodding to know why her two characters couldn't be together. And he'd taken everything she'd said to heart, too: kissing her instead of talking about things; sharing his war experiences and his prior loves. Yet, he thought their marriage was the massive elephant in the corner of their tiny room – and that's why he'd never used explicit terms. There was no need to say, "I'm your husband – why can't you forgive me and come back home?" He'd been saying it for weeks.

And she had to admit…she was at fault as well. She could _easily_ have checked her understanding somehow – used the word "friends" to refer to them at some point – have done with this far sooner and avoided all this misunderstanding and heartache.

But…but she hadn't. Because she'd wanted it to be the same as with the Doctor. And she wanted to believe he was _still_ the Doctor, using his warped memories and mannerisms to convince herself that he was. And so she'd played on the ambiguity of their relationship, pushing at the boundaries of what one would call "friendship," because…

Well. Because she was in love with him.

Oh…right. _That _was the real source of her anger.

She opened her palm again and stared at the ring. Something she could never have. Something she would never have _dared_ wish for. And it was being offered her by the wrong...

Because if she'd had doubts before – if she had held onto a last shred of hope that she could interpret any of John's words or actions about her as somehow stemming from the Doctor's thoughts and feelings – well…she no longer had such delusions. She _had_ to start thinking of John as a different man. A man who reminded her of the Doctor, like Amy and Rory had said. But who was not him.

Which meant – she needed a plan. And fast. She couldn't deny the relationship now that he'd named it, but she could play the part of the woman scorned. She could use it to her advantage: she assumed that in his mind, she'd learned about River but didn't know her context. Well – this was new information; she needed time to digest it. To consider how they were going to proceed. And in the meantime, she could maintain a plausible excuse for needing to sleep in separate beds. For placing a moratorium on any physical contact.

But…could she do it, really? Could she refuse the advances from a man who looked, talked, walked and acted exactly like the man she…loved? Could she look into those eyes that gazed on her adoringly and full of love and _not_ feel anything?

Her eyes brimmed afresh at the thought – at that image burned forever into her mind. Him, on his knees before her – _My darling, I love you more than my own human existence…_

Even his word choice pierced her heart like a perfectly fired poison-tipped arrow: like she could still believe it was the Doctor speaking through John.

She peered again at the ring in the center of her palm, before tentatively extending the finger of her other hand and poking at it. Tipping her palm, she let it slide down her finger, just to see if it fit. Once it moved past her knuckle, though, she immediately tipped it back, letting it land in her palm. She balled her fist around it, resting her forehead against it.

Just then, there was a knock.

Well, time to face…_her husband_ then.

* * *

***Author's Note: **WOW – 30 reviews for one chapter?! THANK YOU to all of you who have left me feedback – it means so much to me! I will be able to post the next chapter sooner because my company leaves after tomorrow so never fear – more love-sick John is on the way. ;)


	11. Chapter 11

***See end for Author's Note**

"Sweetheart?"

Oh. Speaking of poisoned arrows...

"Can I come in, or…?"

Sighing, she got up from her spot on the floor and opened the door. John had obviously been leaning against it and had to grab the door jamb to prevent from falling into her. "Sorry, I…"

She tried not to think about how very Doctor-like his valiant effort to appear casual was as he righted himself, hands clasped behind his back, then shoved in his pockets. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

Grasping the door jamb, she contemplated the man standing before her and wondered just how much he would continue to act Doctor-like. And whether it would make it easier or harder to keep her distance. "Yeah, I'm okay, just…needed to um, collect my thoughts. It was all a bit – much." Her other hand still held the ring and she let it drop to her side.

"Oh." His forehead creased. "So…does that mean you're…" His toe stubbed at the doorway, as if to determine whether any part of him was permitted entrance. "…staying or…not?"

"Yes." Her reply was automatic, uttered without thinking it through. "I mean…I am – staying. But…" Her mind raced. "I'm gonna need time. And – space. Now that I know everything, it's just…" She sighed, searching for how to say what she needed to. And then – she realised she didn't have to bend the truth at all. "I thought things were different between us. And now I know what they are – exactly what they are. I mean…the man I knew before –"

"I'm still him," he interjected, pleading.

Clara smiled wistfully. "I know you are. Cause he's in there…somewhere. But things have changed – you're also not him anymore. *You've* changed. And – it's just something I need to learn. How to be around that man."

John leaned against the door frame, his hands jittery within his pockets. He shook his head. "I don't understand. I thought you said you accepted me - _all_ of me. Even the parts I didn't like." There was a desperate edge to his voice.

Clara almost reached for him before remembering she was still holding the ring. His restlessness was infectious. "I do. I meant it. But…there's a difference between thinking and feeling something and knowing how to...live it. And that's why I'm gonna need some time." She tried for a smile, hoping she'd struck the right balance between conviction and reassurance.

"And space." He glanced pointedly into her room. "I assume that means that you'll – still stay in here?"

"Yeah," she answered quickly. "For now," she added when her answer worked like gravity on his features. "And – that also means that I'll need to be the one to um, initiate any –"

"Intimacy?"

"Touching," she clarified, eyes wide. "Contact."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Any at all? I can't…embrace you or – kiss you?" His longing was unmistakable. "Or stroke your hair or…hold your hand?"

She swallowed, her heart speeding up at such a display of unabashed yearning for her. "You can. Just…you have to let me be the one to initiate it."

He let his head fall onto the side of her doorway in a swoon, the perfect representation of a love-sick puppy. "Can I ask?"

God, he was going to make this so difficult. She nodded. "Yes."

His eyes wandered openly between her eyes and her lips. "So…can I kiss you?" His voice was softly enticing.

He became the flame and she the moth when he looked at her like that. She felt herself give a twitch of her head, a barely imperceptible shake. "No." Her voice was no more than a breath. She cleared her throat, finding more sound. "Not yet."

His head lolled then drooped, starting to take his shoulders with it. Clara couldn't help herself.

"But – we can hug."

His face lit up with overjoyed relief and then his arms were around her, almost pulling her off the ground. Her fingers dug into the unfamiliar material of his suit jacket, and she buried her nose in it, trying to find the underlying Doctor smell beneath John's aftershave. John's hands grasped at her back, her hair, her neck, whilst letting out sighs that ranged from wisps of air to sounds that bordered on moans. Clara could feel that spark ignite, as the intimacy of their embrace recalled her earlier conditions for contact. Releasing him, she ran a hand self-consciously through her hair, smoothing where he'd mussed it. Finally forgetting about the ring, it fell from her hand and clattered to the floor.

"Oh…!"

She was about to scoop it up but John was quicker than she was, stooping and picking it off the floor before raising slowly, ring in the center of his palm, the same question on his face.

Clara stared at it, feeling the weight of how each second dragged for him, and she reached out for it, grasping it between thumb and forefinger. Bringing her other hand up, it mimicked the first, held between both thumbs and forefingers. On impulse, she brought it to her lips and kissed it, meeting John's eyes meaningfully. Hoping it was enough of a response for him.

It seemed to be, for he nodded, smiling softly at her. "Well…" he began, pursing his lips together in a smirk. "I suppose you know where to find me."

Clara returned the smirk, before she gradually closed the door, nothing more to say.

She sat on her bed and returned to studying the ring. She couldn't wear it – she knew that. But…she couldn't _not_ wear it, either. Glancing about her little room, she searched for a solution, her hand continuously shaking it as though it were hot. It was an impossible thing - that was certain. Perhaps it was fitting, then: an impossible thing for the impossible girl.

Spying a glinting object on her bureau, she felt herself smile as the solution presented itself. Picking up the simple gold chain, she threaded the ring through it before placing it round her neck. After a moment's thought, she dropped to her knees, digging in the satchel again. Finding her prize, she undid the clasp on the necklace, threading the second item through before replacing it on her neck again.

She stood in front of the mirror and appraised her make-shift necklace. Staring at it, she thought about John's melancholy musings from the previous day about his plight as the Doctor. She'd insisted he was wrong at the time, but…maybe it applied to her, too. Maybe you really did have to choose: the name or the heart. One of these was supposed to represent her heart, but she was wearing it in name only. The other had given her the name that solidified her in his life – the Impossible Girl - but was where her heart lie. She ran her fingers over them before squeezing tight, an unexpected lump in her throat. A wedding ring…and a TARDIS key. Two things she could never, _ever_ have together again.

* * *

***Author's Note: I know – another shorter chapter, but I promise the next ones will be longer and packed with more…stuff. Also just another reminder, it's officially M now so that means anything M is fair game (for this story, that means sexytimes) – you've been forewarned. ;) Thank you again to all who follow, favorite and give me feedback – I love hearing your thoughts and opinions, especially when y'all bring things up I haven't even thought of (which many of you have done)!**


	12. Chapter 12

***See end for Author's Note**

He tried, she supposed. He probably _did_ try.

She wondered, with a wry smile, if it was impossible for him to give her the time and space she'd requested because he'd already given her all of time and space.

The first week was the easiest. He seemed renewed by her decision to stay with him, and he resumed various activities with Doctor-like vigour. He had, apparently, returned to the electronics shop and purchased the radio that she'd admired, probably in another effort to win her back. Yet, there was something about it which seemed to offend his buried alien sensibilities, and he had disassembled it with mutterings about "mad shopkeepers" and "know bollocks about sound quality." She almost slipped up at one point, throwing an offhanded comment about "using the sonic" for which she'd earned a face that was trying to be quizzical yet was more puzzled at why the term probably sounded familiar. She covered with a breezy laugh and gave him the biggest innocent eyes she could, feigning stereotypical womanly ignorance at any of the names for his tools. Then, she tried to change the subject, asking where he kept his tools and did not have to feign ignorance when he told her the attic.

"We have an attic?" she asked, completely forgetting she was not supposed to ask questions like this.

He squinted at her whilst twisting a wire. "Yes, dear – how I fell off the ladder, remember – in our - the master bedroom above the…did you forget?"

Clara's laugh was shaky, as she picked idly at the typewriter keys. "No, just…wondering what else you've been putting up there. Since I left. Or if you turned it into a man cave."

His twisting slowed. "A what?"

"A…bachelor pad. You know." Her tone was teasing, but when she looked up, he was approaching her, a little worried crease between his eyebrows.

Kneeling before her, he broke their no-contact rule, grasping her hands fervently. "Darling, do you think that I enjoyed having you gone?"

Clara tried very hard to avert something that wasn't gooey-eyed schoolgirl. "N-no…"

He stroked her fingers, pressing kisses to them. "Do you think it was anything other than agony to come home to an empty house, devoid of your presence? Not sharing the events of my day with you or hearing your laugh or being goaded by your teasing? Not seeing your glorious smile and the way your eyes shine when you look at me?"

_John_, _not the Doctor._ "I didn't –"

"The softness of your lips," he continued, clearly distracted as his voice took on a different quality, his words slower. "The feel of…your arms around me, how you fit so perfectly there – your waist…so tiny. Your skin against mine…" His finger traced patterns on the inside of her wrist, lazily trailing up her bare arm, making her shiver. "How you'll give me that devilish smile when you want me…"

Oh God. When had she -?

"The sounds you make, oh…" A low chuckle rumbled deep in his chest as his wandering finger continued over her arm. "It's all I can do when I hear you – when I know I'm giving you pleasure…"

Clara struggled to hold onto any of the reasons that there was a no-contact rule when _this_ was –

"And you know…"

(Was it actually possible for his voice to drop any lower?)

He looked up at her from hooded lids. "I still haven't made you come…"

No coherent thought remained. Just – "John…"

"Yes, Clara…?" One word from her and it seemed like he'd take her on the table.

And that was it – that was all she needed. This was a different man – not the one she wanted. It was enough to snap her out of it. "Remember I need – more time?" Her question was breathless, but she was no longer in danger of falling into his arms. Quite literally at this point.

He blinked, his breathing ragged, then he shifted, eyes wide at the apparent discomfort this caused. Embarrassment and frustration were evident as he rose stiffly, before abruptly bolting up the stairs. The sound of a door slamming made Clara cringe, but then she had to take a moment to collect herself when she realised which door.

The loo door.

He was…oh _God_…

She closed her eyes, taking an unsteady breath, but that didn't help. So she rose, shaking herself out, pacing a few steps to the counter, before leaning against it, drumming her fingernails. She swallowed, shaking her head, trying to not think about what was going on upstairs, what he was…doing, how…he looked…that he was thinking…about her…

Clapping her hands down on the counter, she returned to her seat, starting a new paragraph about the Crimson Horror and Mr. Sweet, going into vivid detail about the grotesque reveal from Mrs. Gillyflower. After a few minutes, she was able to breathe normally again.

He seemed like he understood the no-contact rule after that.

Well…almost.

Maybe it that he found her as alluring as she him when she did something reminiscent of their other life. Maybe he was aroused by her display of domesticity.

Maybe it was just bound to happen at some point.

One evening, Clara wished for the hundredth time that the counters were just a little bit shorter. Or a little less slippery. The angle was such that the beating motions were tiring, and the bowl kept sliding so that she had to either chase it or hug it to her chest. But she was determined that she would be successful with _this_ attempt.

"This time I will be Souffle Girl!" She informed the treacherous bowl and mass of runny liquid.

Had she been so enrapt in her thoughts that she had missed the sounds of him coming in? Or was he trying to be stealthy now? Regardless, John's presence was all of a sudden behind her.

"Hello." His voice was at her ear.

Clara tried not to shiver at his proximity, and turned her head just enough to acknowledge him. "Hello."

She continued to beat at the mixture, intent on ignoring him.

He didn't say anything, watching her for a while, but his hands soon came into view, and he laid them gently on hers, stilling them. Then, he applied pressure to her right hand, making it beat at the mixture, but guided the left so that it tilted the bowl. "You won't have to work as hard if you change the angle." He loosened her grip on the whisk, angling it differently as well. "And if you hold it this way, you can gain more leverage." He was bending over her, his breath tickling the hairs that had escaped from her ponytail on her neck. "Feel how that's easier now?"

Clara's eyes closed, and she swallowed. She could feel the heat of his body behind her, his mouth near her ear, and it made her hands go limp, dropping the whisk.

His hands stayed where they were a moment, before drawing them towards her, wrapping themselves round her waist, and pressing into her. His breathing had become audible, and, very slowly, she felt his mouth inching closer to her neck, requesting permission.

Without thinking, she tilted her head to the side, offering the bare patch of skin to him. Her lips parted in anticipation.

At the first press of his lips, electricity surged through her, and they both inhaled at the contact. The second was firmer, more sure of their purpose, as they moved over her skin, working in tandem. Her breath hitched, caught, and then exhaled through a barely audible waft of air. The third kiss was almost an extension of the second, moving towards her ear, his breath hot on her neck, making her shiver.

"Clara…"

This time she exhaled more loudly, the warmth spreading through her body, making her limbs weaken and tingle, and she leaned back into him, turning her head as she did so.

The moment hung suspended, their lips millimetres apart. Each second felt an eternity as Clara realised that he _was_ obeying their no-contact rule, and that she would need to be the one to close the gap.

_Not the Doctor, not the Doctor, not the –_

She didn't care.

Her mouth crashed into his, her arms flung round his neck, pulling him into her, her breath coming in loud gasps. He matched the ferocity of her embrace, his breath mingling with hers, fingers in her hair, trailing down her back, grabbing at her arse. He backed her up and lifted her onto the counter, hiking her dress high and she instantly spread her legs, granting him access. She moaned when he pushed himself against her, wrapping her legs around him as she felt his heat and need through the thin fabric of her knickers. His mouth was on her neck again, face buried there as he placed sloppy kisses under her ear, yanking the zipper of her dress down to expose more skin, which he attacked with equal fervour. She was impatient: she fumbled at his belt buckle, undoing the button on his trousers so she could get at him. She could hear John's muffled groans as she did so, making her smile that devilish smile he'd mentioned before. But then the zipper stuck, and she made a little noise of protest as her fingers had become clumsy in her urgency and couldn't work properly. He batted her hands away to try himself, upsetting her balance so she leaned her elbows back on the counter –

-right into the previously forgotten bowl of raw soufflé, knocking it over, splashing her arm, her dress and spilling the contents all over the counter and floor.

"Oh..." She managed between breaths, wrinkling her nose at the feel of cold raw egg on her arm, studying the damage to her dress. Looking over at John, she grimaced apologetically. "Sorry." And she was. Nothing like a food disaster to kill the mood.

He was quite the sight to see: lips swollen from her kisses, hair mussed, trousers pooled at his feet, pants tented from his arousal. Yet he was staring with mouth agape, looking like someone had just kicked his puppy. Then, he sprang into action, grabbing a towel and handing it to her. "It's okay," he said, his voice reassuring. "We just need to clean this up." There was a hint of unmistakable urgency.

She jumped down from the counter, steadying herself so she didn't slip on the liquidy goop, and they worked in silence, John's motions fueled by a frantic energy. Once they'd cleaned up the mess and Clara had washed off her arm, he took her hand without another word and pulled her towards the stairs, kicking off his trousers as he did so.

Clara resisted, tugging back gently. "John, I still have to clean off my -"

"What?" He spun around, gaze unfocused. "Yes, we - we have to get you out of that dress – it's –" He swallowed, urgency giving way to desperation. "We can continue this upstairs," he said like it was final.

"John –"

But her mild resistance went unheeded, as he nearly dragged her up the stairs.

"John, stop." She laid a hand on his arm, trying to calm his frayed nerves.

"What?" His eyes begged her not to speak.

She sighed, tilting her head at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry, but –"

"No, Clara, don't –"

"I just –"

"No." The begging turned sharper, something becoming unleashed.

"I think –"

"Clara…" His voice slid up on her name, a warning.

"I think maybe we went too fast," she finally managed.

His breath came in gasps, his shoulders heaving, his visage wild, like the animal instincts in his reptilian brain were taking over. The tension rose as he stared at her hard, like she'd managed to shred the last of his patience.

Clara wondered if she'd pushed him too far, anxiously eyeing his posture. "Are you –"

He suddenly raised a hand as though he would strike her before quickly balling it into a tight fist, pressing it into his forehead. Then he turned and smashed his fist into the wall, releasing a guttural roar, before leaning into it, his breath still coming in gulps.

Clara jumped back in horrified fear, her fight-or-flight adrenaline mode engaged.

The gulping sounds changed, and his shoulders shook, his fingers grasping at the wall as though for support.

Adrenaline still high, Clara reached out a tentative hand, slowly reaching for his shoulder. "John –"

He recoiled from her touch, rounding on her in fury. "_Leave me alone_!" he bellowed, wrenching himself from her grasp and flying up the stairs, door slam shaking the foundations of the house.

Clara stood frozen, unable to move, her fingers clenching at air before landing on the wall, caressing the spot John had just punched as though she could soothe its ache. Her lip quivered, and she wrapped her arms around herself before sliding down the wall to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. Her dress was still wet and uncomfortable from the spilled soufflé, but she barely noticed. She rocked herself, whispering the same words over and over again.

_He's coming back. He's coming back. He's coming back._

* * *

***Author's Note: **So this is the last chapter until the end (with the exception of one in the middle) that has more moderate pacing. After this, it's kind of going to be a race to the finish line (in terms of the timing of events, i.e. no more breaks in time.) So I will do my best to leave you with enough breathing room. And – be forewarned: there's an upcoming chapter that may inspire hate mail, the cliffhanger is so evil. ;) Thank you, as ever, to all who read and leave feedback – I so appreciate it!


	13. Chapter 13

***See end for Author's Note**

Things were a bit different after that.

He seemed to take the notion of time and space to heart, with an emphasis on space. He rose earlier every morning, taking his breakfast before hers and then he either retreated to his room or spent the day out of the house, doing God knows what. When they did happen to be in the same room, he barely acknowledged her presence, if at all. If he didn't leave the room altogether. At first, it was a welcome respite from the electrical tension of the previous weeks: she wasn't wondering if there would be another surprise attempt at seduction. It was also easier because he was no longer Doctor-like, returning to Moody John at full throttle. She was no longer in danger of falling for _him_.

But then – all the space he'd given her made her realise he was all she had in this bloody city, country and era. She soon discovered that, Rosie the Riveter sensibilities be damned, social circles were closed off when there were rumours that your husband was a philanderer. Clara had never been one to make easy friends so when she found the fake smiles and forced laughter of the few social gatherings she attended a bit much, she returned to the solace of her typewriter.

She'd been provided a glimpse of the Cold War in her travels with him. She'd never actually imagined she would live through one.

But because he was John, he had to do something to ignite a spark again. Just not the pleasant kind.

For instance, she awakened to a different smell one morning.

She noticed it straight away – or perhaps it had awakened her itself. Frowning at the all-too-familiar odour, she investigated the alley below her open window for the source but found it empty. So she followed her nose to John's room. He was still in his dressing gown with slicked-back hair, sprawled languidly on his bed. In one hand was a copy of _Journey to the Centre of the Earth_; in another was a…cigarette. She wasn't sure if she'd ever seen an image so entirely un-Doctor-like, and it both clenched at her chest whilst turning her stomach.

"What are you doing?" she asked, unable to keep the edge out of her voice.

"Reading," he replied blithely, attention fixed on his book.

"No – you're smoking."

"Yes."

"In bed."

"Yes."

Her hands spread as if she could grasp the level of bonkers. "…why?" was all she could come up with.

"Because I want to. Problem?"

"Problem?" Her voice slid high on the word. "You don't smoke!"

She apparently still wasn't worth breaking his concentration over. "Yes, I do - you've just never noticed."

"No, you don't; you never have – and I _definitely_ would've noticed if you had done."

He ruminated over this. "Everyone smokes."

Clara opened her mouth to offer a rebuttal, then stopped, realising the truth of his statement. "Well – I don't and you don't and – since when have you started caring about what others do?"

"I don't," he spat, whipping a page. "I don't care a whit about what anyone else does, or what anyone else thinks, so why do _you_ care so much all of a sudden?" He fixed her with a withering look.

Clara's hands went to her hips, not backing down. "I _care_ because it pollutes your lungs, eats at your teeth, yellows your nails and stinks up your hair and clothes and anything else in the room."

"Well," he laughed bitterly. "It's my house; I can 'stink it up' as much as I please."

"It's _our_ house, so no, actually – you can't."

He slapped the book shut. "And when you start acting like you want to be my wife and not just my flat share, I'll perhaps give your opinions of me and my behaviour more weight." He rose from the bed and stalked towards her, grabbed her by the elbow and practically pushed her towards the door. "Until then, when I'm in my room, I'll continue to do as I please, and if that includes smoking in bed – so be it."

Clara spun about, somewhere between shock and blind rage. "It's disgusting to snog anyone who's been smoking. It's always been my biggest turn-off."

His smile was positively vicious. "Well – good job you're not snogging anyone, then." And he slammed the door in her face.

Blind rage had won and she pounded on the wood with her fist. "Hey! I guarantee you that in a month you're going to regret every sodding cigarette you stick in your mouth!" A lock clicked in reply. "And if you fall asleep and set yourself on fire, I will _never_ forgive you!"

She stomped back to her room, throwing her own door shut and stuffing a towel underneath it, a trick she'd learned in uni to ward off her neighbours' ever-present pot fumes. She thought about the fob watch, but it made her stomach flip flop and reignited her blaze of anger at being trapped herself. He might as well have dumped her in there, too, for all the freedom she had right now.

But she still had the freedom to be alluring and unavailable, however. And she intended to use it.

So that day, she put on one of her most daring outfits: a red dress with a plunging neckline that enunciated her curves and hugged her in all the right places. She set about her day, ensuring that she was standing - if not in an innocently provocative position - when he appeared around lunchtime. He basically skidded to a stop at the foot of the stairs, swallowing audibly. Ah, revenge was sweet.

"You…" he stuttered. "You look _stunning_." There was such adoration in his voice, it made her turn. He gawked at her before shaking his head, his features suddenly softer. "You really have no idea, do you?"

Damn him for making her forget her blissful vengeance. "What?"

He walked up to her, that look on his face like he wanted to sweep her off her feet in a melodramatic clinch. "How utterly breathtaking you are," he murmured, then he deftly grasped her palm, laying a feather-light kiss on it with the all reverence of a lord to a lady. "My Clara," he whispered tenderly, before heading out of the room and out the door without another word.

She was certain she could stay married to this man for fifty years and never understand what made him tick.

She thought things would warm up a touch after that – and, at first, it appeared they had. He no longer avoided her like the plague, staying in the living room when she came into the kitchen, the silence a notch below tense, a hair above neutral yet devoid of its prior charge. He even randomly danced with her one evening, though that had, of course, ended in disaster, reinforcing their stalemate. Still, she started nudging at the concept of space, joining him when he read, as she tried to learn to knit. Or…maybe crochet; she could never remember which. On one such evening a week or two after the smoking incident, she attempted a bit of light conversation.

"Another Jules Verne," she remarked. "Last week it was _Journey to the Centre of the Earth_; before that _Around the World in 80 Days_. Now _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_." She looked over, hoping for some acknowledgement – maybe even a smile.

To no avail. His attention remained fixed on his book. After a while, he finally answered in a monotone. "Yes."

He'd answered her, though. That was something. "Seems like you got a taste for science fiction."

The same silence followed by another equally uninterested reply. "Yes."

She chuckled wistfully. "Yeah…me, too."

Was that a muscle jumping in his cheek, working towards a favourable expression? She decided to test the waters even further. "But I've never read those. Isn't there a sea monster in that one – in a sub at the bottom of the ocean?" She smiled.

A page turned sharply. "What are you doing?"

"I'm…" she stammered, reminding herself that it was acceptable to talk to her husband. "I'm making conversation."

This time the reply was nearly automatic. "Well – don't."

"I'm just…why can't we talk?"

"Because you said you wanted space."

"When I said I wanted space, I didn't mean a - whole galaxy of it!"

He bristled, his jaw clenching. "So before it was too little; now it's too much. What will _next_ week be like, I wonder?"

Clara tried to keep her cool, ignoring the lump in her throat. "Can't we just – find something in the middle?"

"The middle?" He queried distastefully.

"Like –" she was getting flustered; "-like something between hot and cold, like warm – like happy medium – like we can be in the same room and talk and – John!"

He'd risen out of his seat in a flash, book in hand as he headed for the stairs. She followed him, almost reaching a hand out to touch his arm.

"I can't do this," she pleaded with his unforgiving back. "I can't be in the same house with you and constantly wonder if you even _like_ me anymore –"

"Like you?" He whirled on her, throwing the book to the ground. "_Like_ you?" he repeated, as if the word were sacrilegious. "I don't like you, Clara – I _love_ you. Foolishly, desperately, stupidly _love_ you. So no, I don't want to find a happy medium or a middle ground or just sit in a room and _talk_ - because every time you're in the room I –" He broke off abruptly, catching his breath and pressed his lips together into a thin line. "Do you even love me anymore?"

She let out a soundless sigh before she could catch it, immediately drawing his attention to her face. "John…" Her mouth worked as she wracked her brain for a response that wouldn't destroy him. And her. "It's not that simple…"

He looked like he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, ready to tumble into a bottomless abyss. "I think it is." He'd gotten very quiet. "It's a yes or no question."

"There's a lot to figure out," she began earnestly, the precariousness of her position not lost on her. "I loved the man you were before," she admitted, the truth surprisingly easy to admit. "But you've changed - you're different, and I'm still trying to…sort it all out." She spread her hands helplessly. "I said I needed space, but – I also need time."

"Time and space – yes, your favourite refrain." He stopped, looking like he might've regained his footing on the precipice. "How much time?"

"I…dunno." She shook her head. "A – month? Maybe?"

"A _month_? You need _another_…" He exhaled, leaning his hand against the wall as though he needed the support at the news. He shook his head, looking positively done for. "And during this time, I assume you'll want all the conditions you set before? All of the _rules_ you've set regarding our marriage, regarding…intimacy?"

"I don't know!" she exclaimed, her voice taking on a shrill quality. "I can't tell – I don't have a –" She bit off her next words before she could say them.

_I don't have a time machine._

And all of a sudden, the lunacy of her situation struck her and she broke into a fit of laughter. Throwing her head back, she cackled at the utter hilarity, her shoulders shaking with uncontrollable giggles.

"What's so funny?" He eyed her with furrowed brow, like he was questioning whether he should take offense or not.

She continued to laugh, bordering on hysterical, as she reveled in his complete non-comprehension. "I was just about to say – I don't have a time machine!" She let out another guffaw, but gradually quieted down as he continued to regard her with the same dark expression. "Cause I don't," she admitted resignedly. Shaking her head, she felt that lump return to her throat, her mirth dissolving. "Why?" she whispered, no longer caring if John didn't understand. "_Why_ are you doing this? What have I ever done but be there for you – sacrifice – the things I've sacrificed for you!" Her eyes filled, and she continued to shake her head, as if she could deny that _this_ was her life now. "All that time –all that time I've been there for you – that I've lived and died for you, everything I gave up for you, and this -!" She motioned between the two of them. "_This_ is what you do? This is how you…" The tears were falling now, faster than she could stop them. "I want you to know I am trying! I am trying so hard – I am trying and trying to do as you said, but you're making it impossible, you're making it…" She broke off, her shoulders starting to shake, and she bowed her head, burying it in her hands.

Almost instantly, his arms were around her, his fingers gently stroking her hair. "Darling," he murmured soothingly. "I'm so sorry – I am such a clod. Please don't cry, sweetheart –"

"Don't call me that," she mumbled into his shirt.

He pulled back a bit, slightly wounded. "What?"

"Don't call me that," she repeated, breaking away from him, tears staining her face. "I am not your darling; I am not your sweetheart, and I am not your dear. I am your impossible girl and I'm your Clara, but I am not –"

_Your wife. Your woman. Yours… _

She let out a strangled noise of frustration at all of the things she couldn't say. The roles she had to play; this bloody sham life she led.

"I am _not_…"

She looked wildly about at the room, the walls too close; this house, this life: trapped. In a sham marriage with a man she loved and desperately wanted who was not the man she loved or wanted or was he and _how would she ever know what was real and what was -_

It was too much.

She had to escape.

Dashing about the room, she searched for her purse, her shoes, her keys.

"Where are you going?" He followed her, hovering concernedly about.

She had purse in hand but had encountered trouble with the buckle of one of her shoes. "I have to get out of here."

"But – it's half past ten! And…you're not wearing any stockings!"

"I think the good people of New York will survive, John." She successfully fastened the second buckle and headed for the door.

"But –" he spluttered again – "it's not decent to go out in public, baring yourself like that!" His admonishments rang false, transparent excuses to disguise his panic.

They were enough to halt her progress at the door, though, her breath hissing from between clenched teeth. Her hand moved to the door knob.

"Clara!"

The sound of his choked cry was enough to make her turn.

He was teetering on the edge again, begging her not to push him in. "Are you coming back?"

She opened her mouth, but her _yes, I'm just going out for a walk_ stuck in her throat. She closed it, shaking her head. "I don't know yet."

He was back on that bridge in Central Park again, discovering new fissures of his world in her face. "Please…" His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Please come back."

It tore at her, and it almost made her want to drop her things and forget everything but –

_You're the one who's doing this, not me!_

"I…" she began, that claustrophobic feeling returning, and, unable to look at him any longer, she went out the door before she lost her nerve. Sagging against it, she latched the door behind her, feeling her breath return to normal at last.

* * *

***Author's Note:** Just wanted to clarify my note from the previous chapter because I discovered my wording was confusing. This is *not* the last chapter before the end – I still have a lot of other things that need to happen before I can wrap this up, and, with the exception of next chapter and a bit of a respite a few chapters later, I'm going to be pretty relentless with the pacing. :-p Once again, a huge shout out to my readers, favoriters, followers and reviewers. I love hearing your thoughts about what you think, feel, character insights, anything so – thank you! :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** Cultural references: "Moonlight Serenade" and "Sunrise Serenade" were popular in the 1940's as recorded by Glenn Miller and his orchestra. The reference John makes to George Bailey is from the 1946 American film "It's a Wonderful Life," starring Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed. George offers to lasso the moon for Mary, a woman he's courting (and later marries.) Here's the quotation:

_What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon, Mary._

Bit of a longer chapter this time to satiate you for the next few days. Thank you again to all my readers, reviewers, favoriters and followers! You guys are simply the BEST! :)

* * *

There weren't many people out, but the street was well-lit. She started walking aimlessly in one direction, thoughts racing, chest churning, emotions roiling. She'd had half a notion to turn her feet in the direction of the TARDIS, but such a blatant reminder of her – old? Previous? Normal? - life just now made her heart lurch.

Also, she honestly wasn't sure whether she'd return once she was safely inside.

Well…that wasn't completely true. She would return. She would _always_ come back to him. It just wouldn't help to lighten her mood. And it might make her want to smack him again for bollixing up everything. And for giving her the silent treatment these last few weeks – and for pursuing her so relentlessly before that. And - for being so bloody _moody_. Actually, when she thought of it, she had quite the list of things she wanted to smack him over.

Except…except that one evening. And…she had to admit, he had _tried _then. And she had – well…

Had it only been a few days before? She couldn't place it, exactly, as the days and weeks of their Cold War had started blending together. But it was after the soufflé incident, she knew that – and the smoking debacle. When the temperature in her house was kept at a chilled ice-cold or half a degree below freezing. After John's tinkering with the radio had been successful and its music was the only noise for days and days, other than the clickety-clack of her typewriter keys.

That evening was no different. The radio was blaring loudly enough that she'd figured he hadn't heard her quiet entrance into the kitchen to work on her book. She remembered the passage: the one about their trip to the Rings of Akhaten, soothing her loneliness and sadness with the joy, wonder and awe of her first time out with him. She'd been so engrossed in describing the Long Song, stumbling over her words for the feelings it had wrought in her, when she became aware that John was standing next to her.

Juddered back to the present, she looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in days. He stood with palm outstretched, one hand tucked behind his back, a graceful posture but for the obvious tension in his jaw and the stiffness of his limbs, as if it taxed him to be standing there. There was a question in his eyes, and he gave a slight nod towards his palm, apparently still unwilling to break their unspoken contract of mutual silence.

Without thinking, she laid her hand in his, and he walked her to the living room. He pulled her just close enough to be considered a proper dance position, but did not hold her to him. The few inches of distance might as well have been a yawning chasm, a fitting snapshot of their relationship. Her eyes burnt a hole into the spot on his shirt where she yearned to lay her head, and she found herself pressing the fingers of her left hand into his shoulder to ward off the resulting stinging sensation.

But then she felt a corresponding pressure on the small of her back, his fingers inching in further. Taking it for encouragement, she crept her fingers higher so she was half cradling his shoulder with her arm, which required her to shuffle her feet a bit closer. He responded to this shift with another slide of his fingers so he now had his whole arm round her waist. Then, ever so slowly, he brought their clasped hands towards him, fitting them over his only beating heart. That was all the permission she needed to let her head fall onto the spot adjacent, ignoring the stillness of his other, unbeating heart and focusing on the feel of his shirt under her cheek and his smell instead. After a moment's hesitation, she felt the point of his chin on the top of her head. It seemed they breathed together, then, relaxing into the feel of being in each other's arms at last.

"This is my favourite," he murmured into her hair. "Everyone loves 'Moonlight Serenade,' but something about 'Sunrise Serenade'…I think it sounds more hopeful."

Clara hummed her agreement into his shirt, simply enjoying the wondrous warmth of being held by him.

"It makes me think of new beginnings," he continued. "That no matter what came before, you can always start over. And…" His voice took on a faraway quality. "For some reason it makes me think of dancing amongst the stars. As though you could twist and whirl from one to the other, looping and weaving your way through the galaxy. Leaving a trail of stardust in your wake."

Her hand turned from where it was held by his, interlocking their fingers and squeezing, her throat full. "Sounds perfect."

He was quiet for a bit. "I would take you," he said softly, his hushed words laden with ardent promise. "If I could. I would dance with you across the stars. Forget George Bailey and lassoing the moon for the woman he loved. Only the moon? No…I wouldn't stop there. For you…for you, I would give you the sun. The sun and the moon and the stars and - all the planets. But even then, it wouldn't be enough. Not for you. I'd find all the other ones, too. I'd start with the ones you could see. I'd ask where you'd want to go, and you would point to a bright dot in the sky – and I'd take you. And then…then we'd find the galaxies that haven't even been found yet – they have to be out there, too. We'd dance amongst every planet, every galaxy, every star system. For you, Clara…I would give you the universe."

She was trying so hard not to cry, holding her lips together, but a soft sob escaped her, quaking her shoulders. Yet John only pressed her closer, burying his nose in her hair. "Oh, Clara…" His voice sounded raspy as well. "I miss you…"

She clung to his shirt as though it could save her. "I miss you, too," she whispered, another high-pitched sound emitting from her throat. Despite her efforts to keep her tears at bay, they spilled over as she blinked, making a wet patch on his shirt. She felt something moisten the top of her head, and then he pulled back, clasping her head between his hands.

"Why…" he pleaded with her, tear tracks on his cheeks as well. "Why can't you be happy with me?"

Now she did lose control, holding onto his arms, the only thing holding her up. "Because," she managed to choke out between sobs, "because…this can't be real."

He stroked her cheeks, a tiny crease between his eyebrows. "What can't be real?"

"You – me; us, together. Here. This house…this _life_ – all of it. _None_ of it…none of it…" Her words were turning nonsensical.

His stroking turned fervent, and his words matched the intensity of his hold on her. "Yes, it _can,_ darling – all of it. We can have all of this – don't you see?"

But she shook her head. "No," she repeated over and over as if it were the only word she knew.

"We can have it if you let us." He said it so quietly she wasn't sure if he'd unwittingly let it slip out.

Now she grew angry, wrenching free from his grasp. "This isn't on me! Don't you make it – don't you _dare_ make this on me – that this is – this is _not_ my fault!"

"But I don't know what else to do," he captured her hands again, holding them between his palms, his grip urgent as he raised them in supplication. "I've – I've apologised; I've told you everything, more than I've ever told…I don't know what more I can do. _Tell_ me what I can do, Clara, and I'll do it." His voice broke in his desperation.

She wriggled in his arms, each entreaty making her more agitated. "Nothing…nothing you can do – you can't –"

_Tell me if this is real._

"You can't know –

_How long this will last._

"You can't give me …I can't ever have –"

_This life with you._

She shook her head again, the last like a punch in her gut as her weeping reasserted itself with a vengeance.

John's hands flitted over her hair, her cheeks, her shoulders, her arms, a frantic flapping motion of two birds who couldn't find a safe place to land. They finally held her hands, draping her fingers over his, thumbs pressing into the indentation between her knuckles. He looked ready to kneel before her. "Just…just tell me this, Clara. You say there's _nothing_ I can do, but…but what if I could? What if I could take you from here?" He stopped, smiling brightly through his tears at the prospect. "What if I could take you – you and me – together – what if we could dance across the stars?" His smile struggled to stay on his face. "Would you come away with me, then?"

Clara gaped at him in disbelief, as the familiar words pierced her heart with deadly accuracy. She twisted her hands from his, slowly backing away. "Stop." Her voice was no more than a breath, shaking her head again and again, near speechless. "How could you be so cruel?"

She shook herself back to reality, ending the memory there – she didn't want to remember John's reaction – the slammed doors, anguished shouts and the days of silence that predictably followed afterwards. For a moment, she'd been dreamily content in his arms, and he'd ruined it by talking about wanting to give her the universe and then pleading with her to _come away with him_…

As if she could believe that any of it was real. As if she could believe that she could live out her fantasy, just fall into John's arms, pretend he was…

She hesitated. Well – not pretend he was the Doctor; she wouldn't need to. He had always been very Doctor-like, mood swings aside. John had acted like a human Doctor from the beginning. But she couldn't just give in. She had no way of knowing what was real…

_We can have all of this – don't you see_?

Oh, how he made her blood boil. Of course she couldn't have all of it –

_We can have it if you let us._

Now _that_ had made her want to scream bloody murder at him – as if _she_ was the one that stood in the way of living in harmonious wedded bliss together. _He _was the one who…

She stopped short, considering. The one who what?

John was not the one she was angry at. John did not know or have any of the answers she sought. He couldn't tell her what was real and what wasn't; he didn't know how long anything might last. What had been his crime? He loved her, he wanted her, and he was willing to do anything to be with her.

She was angry at the Doctor. But she'd been taking it out on John.

And what had _she_ done? Rejected him – repeatedly. Lashed out at him as if he were the Doctor – as if he understood what was happening or what his advances were doing to her. His silent treatment had only started after the soufflé incident. When she'd refused him after being literally _seconds_ from shagging his brains out. And she'd been endlessly grateful for the soufflé's ill-timed dramatic fall from the counter afterwards because…because she remembered, quite clearly – had a very distinct memory of knowing that the man she was about to make love to was _not _the Doctor and…and she hadn't cared.

She hadn't cared…

Because…because she'd wanted him? Yes, of course. But it wasn't that. It wasn't _only _that. She'd craved…she'd craved _him_. John. John, her human Doctor.

Her hands curled into fists as she remembered how close she'd been –she'd have been done for – she'd have been -

Her mind replayed the evening that they'd danced, and she remembered how keenly she'd felt those initial few inches of distance. It was the promise of intimacy, held at arm's length. And then, when he'd finally held her close, she nuzzled into him like she belonged there, thinking how wonderful it was to be in the arms of someone you –

Clara stopped again, looking about at her surroundings. She'd wandered to the trolley stop, apparently, and she sat on the bench, her heart pounding.

Someone you...

Loved.

Oh.

OH.

She loved him, too.

She loved_ John_, too and – had done for quite some time.

_I miss you, too._

Her confession hadn't been for the Doctor, as she'd originally thought…it had been for John. But then his talk of taking her traveling had reminded her of the Doctor, and had ignited her anger so she'd stopped talking to him as John. She'd lashed out again, running away from him – again.

_We can have it if you let us._

With the Doctor – no. She couldn't. A life like this was impossible. But John – John, her human Doctor – she could have it with him.

_Why can't you be happy with me?_

She smirked as she thought of how else she could've answered him.

_Because you're wearing the face of a man I'm going to pummel into the 31__st__ century when I see him again. Who I also love. Who is also you. And when he comes back, that'll mean that you'll be…_

Her smirk fell away, her throat tightening at the end of that sentence.

_The man I'll become – he'll die…I don't want anyone to live through that again._

Of course: the other reason she'd been running from him. Because this would all be over. Because she'd lose him. Because whatever happiness they might have together – would be fleeting. Temporary.

Because somehow, with love always came loss. She was well-acquainted with that.

_If being with me makes you happy, then…just be happy._

Take her own advice, then? The advice that John had done everything in his power to follow? Where he'd only floundered because she kept thwarting him at every turn?

She sighed, leaning back against the bench. Closing her eyes, she pictured him. She pictured coming back, his relief at seeing her return, she pictured dropping her keys, her purse, walking up to him and then – his arms would be around her, and…

And then she'd be home.

Opening her eyes, she twisted the handles of her bag, her heart thudding inside her chest. Reaching up, she undid the clasp on her necklace, removing the ring and, after peering at it again, sliding it onto her finger. She held her hand up, admiring the faint glint of gold, and a slow smile appeared like the sun breaking through the clouds.

Standing up, she took a steadying breath. It didn't take long for her mind to catch itself up on her decision. As she started walking, it conjured up images of what her next days and weeks might look like: meals they'd eat together, more jaunts to the city, her hand in his, her head on his shoulder during the trolley ride; perhaps he'd take her dancing, even. She smiled as she thought about his reaction to that red dress – would he take her to a nice dinner then? A proper date at a posh restaurant? Maybe they could even go on holiday somewhere – she'd heard good things about upstate New York. Her smile grew as she continued to walk, her pace leisurely, her heart swelling at the thought of what the future would hold for them. Her and John. Her husband.

Rounding the corner, she noticed that there was a bit more light than before with more people about. She glanced up at the streetlights, wondering with a silly grin of the love-sick whether the world had actually become brighter already. Bright and brimming with possibility. She shook her head as someone moved past her, dressed in his…pyjamas? How odd. She giggled, her laugh easy, as she wondered at the strangeness of people. How delightfully strange and odd they were. Like John. Now she rolled her eyes as she lightly chastised herself for falling into such predictable patterns. Was _everything_ going to remind her of him? She shook her head, musing how the mighty Clara Oswald – Clara Oswald _Smith_ – had fallen. Oh, she'd fallen, all right. Arse-over-tea kettle.

There were definitely more people than before. She glanced up again, noticing how…was that _more_ people dressed in pyjamas and dressing gowns? There was one woman with lime green curlers pinned all over her head. Normally, she would've questioned it, but now…well, now she just smiled again, guessing at how there must have been some neighbourhood pyjama party. Another social gathering she'd missed. She sighed, imagining how she might cajole John into donning his own pyjamas and dressing gown and attending whichever neighbourhood function they were missing. Or maybe…maybe not tonight. Her smile changed, crooking into something different. They'd waited long enough…

Rousing herself out of that particular line of thought, she noticed she was back on her street. There were even _more_ people out in their dressing gowns – women in curlers and…_children_? Some American holiday she wasn't aware of? Her mind raced for a minute, trying to recall if there had been any major events in American history in 1948, but she couldn't think of any. She'd hated history, but she was fairly certain that it was relatively quiet the first years after the war ended. Something in New York then? Even if that were the case, this wasn't the 21st century: people didn't have mobiles and instant access to everything that happened everywhere.

It was lighter here, too – even brighter than before, and so many people gathered that she had to politely excuse herself to pass by some of them. There was a…sound, too, that hadn't been there before. It was…familiar somehow, but she couldn't quite place it. Like a static noise, maybe? Was everyone gathered to listen to a radio announcement? She felt another smile tug at her lips, and she had to bite down on one because _honestly_, she was getting as giddy as a schoolgirl. She thought about how John might be amongst the crowd outside as well, and how he'd mutter about the "rubbish" sound quality. Maybe he'd even volunteer to fix it.

Now she started looking for him because this was _far_ too many people for him not to notice or investigate. He was the human Doctor, after all: if nothing else, he was always inquisitive.

Once she started looking, she noticed two things. One: not everyone was in their pyjamas. Some were in regular clothes. Two: when they weren't talking excitedly together, they were all looking in the same direction.

She followed the collective line of their gaze up the street to a house that was –

Oh God. It was a fire. There was a house on fire. Of _course_ everyone would be -

Then her heart stopped.

It was her house.

Her house was on fire.


	15. Chapter 15

***See end for Author's Note**

Her house was on fire.

Her house…was on…fire.

She stood dumbly for a moment, uncomprehending, as she watched the orange and yellow flames bloom from the top window like some overgrown alien flower against the night sky.

The top window –

John's bedroom – or…was that the –

Someone rushed past her, and she caught a snippet of conversation that made her blood run cold.

"- said someone's trapped in there and they're trying to get him out, but it's too –"

No.

_No._

Her feet ditched her shoes before she could think, and she was running, ignoring the sting of the pavement against her bare feet – _and you're not wearing any stockings! – _arms pumping, legs pushing her along, faster, faster than she'd ever run as random thoughts darted in and out of her head -

He'd been smoking in bed and he fell asleep, and she'd warned him not to smoke and she'd said she'd never forgive him, but she would – she'd forgive, she'd forget it all, he could smoke, she didn't care - as soon as he was –

_I'm Clara Oswald – I'm the Impossible Girl. I was born to save the Doctor. But the Doctor is safe –_

She'd run into a fire before, no problem, back in a parallel universe, when he was a swashbuckling hero, all poncey white curls and cape, and she hadn't survived that but –

John had been in the RAF – he knew what to do – he'd probably crawled through worse than this – the TARDIS wouldn't leave those vital survival skills to chance -

The crowd was thickest in front of her house, watching in hushed fascination and awe the way humans do when disaster strikes. Some even clutched their children's hands, holding them firmly in place, secure in the knowledge that _their_ loved ones were safe.

Her loved one was safe, he _had_ to be, she knew he was, he was -

She pushed her way through, breathlessly excusing herself this way and that until she came to the front, lunged towards the house and –

-was yanked back, an arm around her waist. "Ma'am, you can't go in there – my men are taking care of it!" a New York-accented voice shouted into her ear.

She wrestled with the arm, turning wildly about. "Please, please – my husband's in there, you don't understand – you have to let me go –no -_John_!"

But he was strong, jerking her away from the house, ignoring her outstretched arms and frantic pleas – pushing her back further and further from where she needed to be – at his side – in there with him –

_I was born to save the –_

"JOHN!" She was screaming now, battling the man, this bloody man who didn't understand that she was not supposed to be out here – that she was always always _always _ supposed to be at his side – that she'd run away- he'd lost her – but they always _found _each other and she wasn't running away from him anymore – she was running _to _him – she needed to run _to him _– he'd only seen her run _away_ and he was going to think she'd run from him and he didn't think she was coming back and -

"Ma'am, I need you to calm down - _ma'am_!" She must've sounded hysterical, must've been babbling about everything – about the Doctor, about John - about being there for him on Gallifrey, she'd been a Time Lord, he didn't understand – living and dying for him – a thousand years and a thousand lifetimes and she was always running to save him and _she had to run to save him_ -

Two firemen stumbled out of the house, carrying a form on a stretcher between them – white shirt and black trousers and a mop of dark floppy hair and –

His skin…glistening. With…

It didn't matter.

She broke free, nearly tripping in her desperation – she could get him to the TARDIS, she could get him to the medical bay, she could heal him, she could repair and restore and –

They laid the stretcher on the ground, before unrolling a sheet and letting it fall over the body.

No…

_NO._

_Nononononono..._

She had to drop, the air thick with heat and smoke, so that she crawled to the body, her arm shaking as she reached for the sheet and –

Two arms pulled her up, someone yelling in her ear as she felt herself passed to another set of strong arms, more yelling, something about safety and sorry and need to get back and out of the way and –

Why should she care anymore?

She was set on the ground, men were lecturing in stern tones, she didn't hear any of it. Her world was dimming, there was no point to anything, the Earth had stopped turning, she was dreaming, this wasn't real, he wasn't –

"_Clara_!"

She looked back at the body, expecting John to rise up like Lazarus or a phoenix or –

"_Clara_!"

She was going mad. The body lay still. What was -?

Just then a commotion sounded off to her left as the firemen converged on a madman running blindly towards the house, shouting all the while. She blinked, dully wondering who of her neighbours could possibly care so much about their house. Or about her. Certainly not about John…

_John. The Doctor. He's…he's…_

Now the madman hauled off and punched one of the firemen, screaming about his wife and –

His wife.

_His wife._

Clara's brain caught her up, and then she was running again, shoving through the crowd, her heart beating faster and faster until she was closer and could see _him,_ John – the Doctor, John the human Doctor, John, her beautiful, alive human Doctor, so beautiful and so alive, ready to brawl with the three firemen who restrained him and she had to pound on their arms – "He's my husband! – let him go – I'm here - John!" – to set him free –

"Clara…"

Her name whispered like a prayer, like the moment she met him, when she opened the door and found him standing there, dressed like a monk, his expression saying she was the most wonderful thing he'd seen across all of time and space.

She staggered to him, and he caught her in his arms, like the first time they'd found each other after thinking the other lost forevermore. They clung to each other – him seizing her in a bone-crushing embrace, and her shoulders heaved as she cried out for him in her relief and his fingers clutched her head. And she was kissing him and kissing him, tasting salt and grime and sweat, drinking from his lips as though it was her only life source. She cosied into him further, not close enough – jumping and wrapping her legs round him, not caring for what was decent in public or not. Earlier comments about public decency forgotten, he only continued to kiss and stroke and squeeze and snaked an arm round her waist, holding her tight to him, like they were both intent on melding into one.

And they were murmuring and crying together, repeating the other's name over and over, proper names, pet names, legal names, sealing their bond. Simultaneously aching and comforting each other, cheeks pressed together, noses brushing, fingers caressing, soothing, reassuring the other that they were okay. That they were both alive. That they had found each other and would never be separated again.

That they were together, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

***Author's Note: **So bit of a shorter chapter, but hopefully packed with enough to put everyone's mind at ease. :) Two reminders to my lovely readers: 1) this is M. Consider yourself reminded. ;) 2) The pace is going to pick up now, so be prepared for a race to the finish line. I'll try to be good about my 2-3 day rule in between chapters, though I may take a bit more time if I don't feel like I've left people hanging. And as always - thank you SO MUCH to all of you who have left me feedback – I love hearing your reactions, emotions, thoughts, questions, frustrations (being called Moffat is a new one :-p) and I appreciate *every one of them*! :)


	16. Chapter 16

***See end for Author's Note**

After the blaze had been squelched and all that remained was smoke, one of the firemen approached the couple, still huddled together. He explained that they'd controlled it and that it should be safe to return to the house. Clara didn't care for him too much: all of his responses to her pointed questions about the source of the fire and its location were directed at John, as though her gender somehow prevented her comprehension. Though she'd been able to determine that John had not started it, having fruitlessly searched for her soon after she'd fled the house (and panicking when he'd returned and heard the same comments about someone trapped inside), she had the notion that there was something she was forgetting – something important…

"The body!" She cried all of a sudden, breaking off Mr. Chauvinist mid-sentence, earning her a peeved look at interrupting Important Men's Talk. "I saw them pull a body out of our house – was he…was he one of yours?"

"No, ma'am," he replied, finally addressing her. "We assumed he was a relative of yours – are you sayin' ya don't know him?"

"No, it's just us," John replied. "What do you mean – are you saying there was someone inside our house?" John's arm tightened protectively around Clara.

A niggling worry was starting to form in Clara's head.

"I was gettin' there, sir," the fireman replied, clearly relieved to resume Man-to-Man talk again. "Like I told ya, the source of the fire looked like it was in the attic from some kinda spill, like gasoline or somethin'. Do ya keep any chemicals up there?"

Clara could feel John bristle next to her. "Do I keep highly flammable chemicals like petrol in an enclosed space made entirely of wood?" John let out an exasperated sigh, and Clara hid her smirk at his dressing down of Mr. Chauvinist. "I was an engineer in the RAF – I wouldn't endanger our lives like that."

She seized on the fireman's momentary blustering. "So something was spilled in the attic – but we don't keep chemicals like that and then – the body." She swallowed against her escalating apprehension. "Are you saying this was arson? Did that man start the fire?"

Mr. Chauvinist flagrantly ignored her now, still talking to John. "You'll have to talk to the police, but it might be linked to the rash of break-ins they've had calls about recently on this street."

"Break-ins? You mean robberies?"

"Nah, that's the funny thing. People have had their houses broken into, but nothin's been stolen – just stuff moved around, like they were lookin' for somethin' and didn't find it. No cash, no jewels, no silver. Funniest thing."

The apprehension had quickly cycled through to panic, and she reached out and grabbed the fireman's arm. "The body – do you know if they found anything on it? Did he try to steal anything?"

The fireman eyed her hand like it had alien tentacles on it. "N-not that I know of. You'll have to talk to the police – they already came and took it away." He tried to extricate himself from Mad Lady, but Clara held fast, her grip savage as her words tumbled out in her urgency.

"Took it away? What do you mean they took it away?"

"Standard procedure, ma'am – for processing." He was almost free of her.

She pointed over at a group of men standing about in darkly coloured uniforms. "Then who do I talk to - those police over there?"

Mr. Chauvinist squinted, a little crease between his eyebrows. "Um – huh. Well, that's funny. The other guys was dressed differently." He shrugged. "But uh – yeah. They should be able to help ya out over there."

"How many police brigades are there in this town?" She fired her question before he could evade her again.

"Uh…well, there's just the one, but – I still wouldn't worry, ma'am. They'll take care of ya." And he patted her shoulder in a way that managed to be both condescending and dismissive before almost scurrying away, back to his men.

John had approached her, his arm falling around her shoulder, but she turned to him, nearly frantic now. "I need to get back in there. I need to see if they took anything."

"They?" John frowned. "But darling, there was just the one. And yes, I agree that it's dreadful to think that he was in our house and Lord only knows why he would've started a fire, but - if he tried to take anything, he didn't get very far, did he?" He rubbed reassuring circles on her arm.

"No, he wouldn't have done – but he might've had help because…the police – the ones that took him away – they were wearing _different_ uniforms than the ones over there. But there's only one police brigade in this town – why would they wear different uniforms?"

John's look was turning concerned. "You're saying that this is a conspiracy? That the police are involved now?"

"No, I'm…" Clara stammered, looking back at the house. "I have to go in there. I have to see if they took it." And she wrenched from John's grasp and ran towards the house, ignoring his _took what?_

Once inside, she had to cover her nose and mouth, the acrid smell burning her throat. The fire had been contained upstairs, and, miraculously, had only burned the attic, taking the floor and part of the roof with it. There was massive smoke damage to the master bedroom, but with her door closed, her room had remained mostly untouched. Diving under the bed, she felt for her satchel, pulling it out from its hiding place. Feeling inside, she yelped as her skin was scalded by something and quickly retracting her hand, she saw that her finger pulsed with a faint outline of a Gallifreyan whorl. Bunching the edges of her dress together to protect her hands, she dug once more, retrieving the fob watch with a loud sigh of relief. Remembering how hot it was, she cradled it in her lap, sitting on the edge of her bed before flopping onto her back, exhaustion from all the events of the evening finally overtaking her. Her mind struggled to form a next plan of action, but her body had other ideas. She could feel herself starting to drift off…

"What's that?"

Had she fallen asleep? Or was he being stealthy again? Sitting up on her elbows to muster some kind of energy, she tried for a convincing lie.

"I thought they'd taken it. It's a…keepsake of mine. Belonged to my mum."

He came over and sat next to her, peering down at it. "Your mum kept a fob watch?"

"Well, it was her - granddad's. Passed on for generations – why it's so valuable. Why I thought they might take it." She hoped her halting explanation was enough, despite the yawning that accompanied it.

John lay down next to her. "I'm glad that it's safe, then. We'll have to check the rest of the house, of course, before the police come by tomorrow – they said they wanted us to do a full inventory, just to be sure." His voice softened. "But no one was hurt – and that's all that matters to me. Everyone's safe." He found her hand, his grip tight.

Clara pulled their joined hands across her body, spooning herself against him. Her other hand refused to release the watch from where it was still folded into her dress. "Yeah," she murmured. "Everyone's accounted for…" She trailed off, sleep forcing her lids down again. Not even her last thought was enough to keep her awake.

_But no one's safe anymore._

* * *

She woke during the night, unused to the heat of another body behind her. Gingerly removing his arm so as not to wake him, she changed out of her clothes in the dark, considering their options. She knew it was too late to try to leave now, but her mind raced to concoct something viable for the morning. Perhaps it was time for that holiday upstate, and, given the recent condition of their marriage, would be a perfect excuse to get them away from the house and provide them a fresh start, erasing the heartache of the last two months. She glanced over at his outline in the dark, body still curled possessively around the space she'd occupied. Approaching him, she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "John."

He jerked awake, apparently his nerves still on edge as well. She couldn't see much from the ambient light, but she knew his head was turned towards her. "Oh…right. I need to…" He sighed, his voice rough with sleep. "Well, the master bedroom's not -"

She stroked his shoulder reassuringly. "No, I'm not – you can stay, I mean…I'd _like_ you to stay. You just need to shove over so I can get under the covers." There was a slight shake to her voice she hadn't expected.

"Oh!" His voice lightened at the news. "Of course, yes, um…" The bed creaked as he shifted to a seated position. "Hmm. I don't normally sleep in these clothes…"

"Oh. Right. Um..." She adjusted the straps on her nightgown self-consciously, even though she knew he couldn't properly see her. "Do you have something to – I mean - you've got pyjamas, right?"

"Yes, in the bedroom - but there's just one problem."

"What?"

"They're in the bedroom so –" She could see him wave a hand in a vague gesture. "-they'll be smoky. And I seem to recall you don't like that smell very much." His voice was gently teasing.

She huffed a short laugh, nodding. "Okay. Well, then I guess – you should just sleep um..." She bit her lip, her heart speeding up at the implications of all the ways that sentence could end.

_Not naked. Don't say naked. Don't think naked. Stop thinking about naked!_

He may have sensed her floundering. "I'll try not to scandalise you, my dear."

She honestly didn't know whether to feel relieved or not.

He righted himself, and there was a moment of awkwardness as she tried to move past him to crawl into bed, an uncoordinated and unpractised manoeuvre. She burrowed into the covers despite the warm night air, a blush heating her cheeks as she heard the sounds of clothing being removed. There was a brief pause, and then the clink of a belt buckle and fabric deposited on the floor with a soft thud.

Clara was sure he could hear the hammering of her heart as he slid in next to her, turning so he was flush against her back once more. Draping an arm across her waist, he pulled him to her, pressing his nose into the space between her neck and shoulder, breathing her in. His bare legs tucked behind her knees, and she felt a little jolt at the most skin-to-skin contact they'd shared to date. She could feel through the double-layers of fabric that he had kept his vest and underwear, but she was acutely aware of the flimsiness of every layer of fabric separating them. There was both a desire to remove every one of them as well as the need to cocoon herself in the covers, creating yet more layers between them. As if sensing her thoughts, he ran a hand lightly down her side, shoulder to hip, emphasizing the thinness of her nightgown. Then he swept her hair back from her neck and placed a soft kiss there, sending a shiver down her spine.

A tense moment where it seemed both had stopped breathing, uncertain of what would happen next. It was almost too familiar, an echo of the soufflé incident kiss. Too much recent history between them.

So she relaxed when John only moved his head up further and kissed her cheek. "Goodnight, my love," he whispered tenderly, before nuzzling his nose into her neck, letting out a contented sigh.

Clara hugged his arm closer to her, smiling at the new term of endearment. "Goodnight…" she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut.

"…my love."

* * *

***Author's Note: **Look! She can do endings that aren't cliffhanger-y and evil! :-p Who knew? A little gift from me to you, my lovely readers. And next chapter picks up with Clara and John in bed. Hmmm…I wonder what will happen. ;) And again thanks SO MUCH for all the wonderful feedback – I love hearing every reaction, thought, feeling, keyboard smash, theory – all of it! You guys ROCK! :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: **Hello, lovelies! So, a few things about this chapter. 1) It's loooong. Because 2) It's M, and smut takes a lot of words. ;) Not graphic M, but M. If you're of the very faint of heart, best to skip about a bit (I like my M realistic, so there are breaks here and there for dialogue and such.) Oh, and remember how I said the pace was going to pick up? Well – hold onto your hats, dear readers…;)

As ever, a huge THANK YOU to all who follow, favorite, and feed me feedback. :-p You guys are AWESOME! :)

* * *

When she awakened the next morning, it took her a moment to recall all of the previous evening's events.

_We had a fight. And then I went for a walk. When I came back there was a fire and…and a body, and he was –_

She rolled over, needing to ensure that she hadn't dreamt the rest of it, that he was here, that he was alive, that he was –

He was so close to her that she bumped her nose into his arm. Or – well – the bed actually was _that _small. Propped up on his elbow, he smiled gently at her. "Good morning."

Having determined that he was, indeed, alive, she suddenly became shy at his extreme proximity, ducking her head. "Morning." She hid her smile behind the sheet, peering up at him.

His smile grew, though his brow furrowed at her. "What's wrong?" He reached his other hand out, tugging at the sheet.

"I'm just –" She bit her lip nervously. "Wondering what I must look like." Would it spoil the moment too much if she changed into that red dress first? And did her hair? And brushed her teeth? Spot of makeup maybe?

His hand strayed to her face, catching a lock of hair and tucking it behind her ear. "What you must look like? My darling…" He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "I don't think you've ever looked more beautiful." He continued to kiss her, tongue prodding at her lips, which she kept shut. He made a little noise of protest, and she pulled away, smiling sheepishly.

"Haven't brushed my teeth yet," she mumbled. He was the only thing between her and the loo, but climbing over him might've seemed a bit drastic at this point.

"Come here," he murmured, pulling her head to his. "Give me your morning breath…" She reluctantly allowed him entrance, and she felt the vibration of his noise of pleasure at doing so. The kiss intensified, and he rolled himself on top of her, hands starting to wander. Clara could feel his need pressing into her through her nightgown and she ground her hips against his, eliciting a muffled moan from him. He clutched at her shoulder, her hip, though she registered that he was steering clear of all her erogenous zones. He finally broke off from her, breathing fast, hands returning to her face, which he gently caressed.

"What?" The way he was gazing at her made her heart do cartwheels.

"I was just thinking…" His fingers moved over her features, fingertips brushing her eyebrows, circling round her nose, her cheeks, tracing the line of her mouth. "That one heart isn't enough."

Clara blinked, her eyes widening slightly. "What do you mean?"

His face worked like he was struggling with something, emotions flickering faster than she could name. "What I feel for you." His fingers continued to trace as if committing the feel of them to memory. "How much I love you – my heart often feels like it might burst with it. That I was meant – I was meant to be born with two hearts. Because for you, Clara..." He took a breath. "With everything I feel…one heart isn't enough to love you."

Before last night she might've pushed him away and hidden, his words yet another taunt - letting her believe that the Doctor was speaking through John. But now, she just drank it in, letting the words stand for themselves: that this man loved her so much he could barely contain himself. John, her human Doctor. And the only fitting response to that was to kiss him.

So kiss him she did, crushing her mouth to his, fingers in his hair, on the back of his neck, on his shoulders. She let her fingertips revel in the feel of his bare shoulders, not as bony as she might've suspected. She wanted – _needed_ – more – more skin, more him, more John. So she grasped one of his hands, slowly and deliberately bringing it to her breast, tearing her lips from his in between kisses to voice her need. "Show me," she murmured. "Show me what you feel, John, I want…" She kissed him languidly. "I want to feel it."

His hand lay achingly still at her breast. "Are you sure?" There was a tremor in his voice, a sense of coiled desire ready to spring.

"Yes," she whispered, kissing him harder, communicating her intent. "Show me."

A moment where it seemed as though his brain needed a few seconds for her request to sink in, or for him to fully believe her. And then – he pounced, animalistic lust eclipsing all other emotions and functions. He kissed her with abandon, his hunger for her evident in every motion of his restless hands, which couldn't seem to decide where to touch first, his excitement was so heightened. Rubbing over her shoulder, her hip, squeezing at her breasts, thumb flicking at her nipple, making her moan into his mouth, before finally descending lower, finding the hem of her nightgown and tugging it over her head. She met him with equal fervour, craving more skin, working his vest off – each pausing just long enough to let fabric slide up and be thrown haphazardly somewhere.

Now skin on skin they met, each wrapping arms around each other, savouring the feel of full contact at last. He broke from her lips to trail fervent kisses down her neck, licking and nipping along her collarbone and finding each nipple and sucking loudly. Clara arched up into his mouth, fingers combing through his hair, before pulling him up to kiss her again, her patience eroding by the minute. He seemed to sense her need, finding the elastic of her knickers and yanking them down, slipping them off her legs. His fingertips trailed back up each leg before turning where they met her hips and stroking her entrance. She jerked her hips at his touch, needy fingers finding the top of his underwear and dipping inside, breath catching as she curled them round the hard length of him. He gasped, eyes flying shut, the pressure of his light strokes on her increasing. This only fueled her movements, and she circled her thumb round the top of his head, pressing into it. He let out a groan, his fingers working up to her nub, his own thumb circling there before slipping a finger inside. Her grip loosened as she lost control of her limbs for a moment, her eyes closing as she sucked in a loud breath.

He took advantage of her momentary distraction, bracing himself to remove his underwear. He moved up her body, positioning himself over her and then she could feel the tip of him poised at her entrance.

Opening her eyes, she looked into his, needing to see, to etch the moment of their first joining into her mind. Slowly, agonisingly, he pushed into her, letting out a sound that made her tingle all over.

"Clara…you _feel_…" Then he hitched his arms under her shoulder blades, burying his face in the fan of her hair on the pillow. "Like…the first time…" he managed, and Clara stroked the nape of his neck, pressing a tender kiss to his hairline.

"Yes. Just like the first time…"

He'd started to move, slow and gentle, and Clara rose to meet him, arms encircling his back, holding him to her heart. He pushed himself up, and Clara couldn't help but let out a throaty moan when his face came into view, eyes squeezed shut, mouth hanging open as his breath came in ragged gasps. He'd escalated the pace, thrusts increasing in force and number, and Clara wriggled her hips, spreading her legs out and wrapping them round his back, heels digging in. Her hands trailed up and down, fingernails scratching lightly, before moving lower, palming his arse and moaning at the feel of it under her fingers. His mouth returned to hers for sloppy kisses, though they mostly panted into each other's mouths, lips pursing every so often to meet.

Clara could feel that flicker of heat low in her stomach, as he kicked his pace up a notch again, groans and grunts growing in volume. Her own cries were starting to rise in pitch as he continued to move, and she was certain he was getting close when all of a sudden he stopped abruptly, going completely still.

Clara had to take a few breaths before she could find her voice. "What are you doing?" she gasped out.

"Stopping," came the husky reply, breath hot in her ear.

"Why?" She practically whined.

She heard him gulping in air. "Because…" Another few gulps of air, and the distinct sound of him trying to get his breathing under control. "Because I want this to last for you. Because I want it to be…I want this for you – as much as I want…I want you and me – together." He kissed her sweetly, reigning in his need, corralling it somewhere inside.

She shook her head. "No." Her hands grasped at his face, breaking their kiss. "No more holding back, John. I want to feel…" She kissed him, sucking at his lower lip, eliciting a little noise of surprise from him. Thumbs stroked at his temples, and she gripped the back of his head. "I told you to show me and now - let me show you. I want you to feel…how much I love you."

He whimpered softly at her declaration, kissing her ardently. "You love me?"

Clara returned the kiss, nodding into him. "Yes." The kiss deepened, and she could feel the full brunt of his desire again. "So much." She rubbed her hands over his back encouragingly, hugging him to her. "I love you so much."

"You love me." He said it over and over, as if to convince himself of the truth of it, each iteration becoming more and more breathless. He started to move again, his thrusts quickly increasing, and Clara followed him, needing to see him feel her, needing to give him this. She clenched her muscles around him, hoping to spurn him on, and he let out a strangled cry, as he pounded into her again and again, all of the pent-up passion from two months of not touching finally being unleashed…

"Clara…I'm –"

And then he let out a guttural shout, akin to the one he'd made before but different – longer, drawn out, and filled with so much raw emotion and everything being finally, finally released, shaking and shuddering over her, spilling into her, and she couldn't help but let out a groan at hearing it, feeling it.

He collapsed on top of her, spent, limbs like deadweights, breath coming in huffs in her ear. She enfolded him in her arms, closing her eyes and sighing.

Then he was raining kisses down on her face: her nose, her cheeks, her lips, her eyelids – anywhere his lips could find. She returned what she could, smiling as the kisses continued, as they moved to her ears, her neck, back up her jawline, feathery light.

"Ohh, my darling," he murmured, continuing to sprinkle her face and neck with kisses. "My darling, darling Clara…"

She giggled, enjoying the feel of such a delicious downpour, then grimaced, as she felt a rather uncomfortable wetness in a different place. "Umm, John…"

"Hmm?" He seemed oblivious for a moment, then stiffened as he felt it, too. "Oh – hrm." He rolled off of her, soft and slack, landing on his back.

Clara took a deep breath, full lung capacity restored, and patted him on the shoulder, swinging her legs off the bed. "I'll be right back," she assured him, giving him a quick peck.

"Don't be too long," he called after her as she made her way to the loo.

After cleaning herself off, she washed up, catching sight of herself in the mirror over the sink. Staring back at her own reflection, her lips curled into a smile.

_I just made love to my husband._

She sighed contentedly, head dreamily tilting to the side.

_I just shagged the Doctor._

Her eyes widened as the realisation hit her, and she had to place her hands on the sink for support. She looked back at her image, mouth forming an "oh." _That_ _might demand a bit of an explanation later…_

But – she had time. And for all she knew, he might wake up in a month and just grin cheekily at her with a "So! What'd I miss?" He might not even remember any of it.

_But then John will be…_

She shook her head, ending that thought. She'd deal with that later, too.

Padding softly back into the bedroom, she stopped at the door, leaning against the door frame and smiling. "Hello," she said casually, though the timbre of her voice betrayed her intentions.

He rolled over and stopped in an awkward position, seemingly arrested by the sight before his eyes. They traveled down her body, a flame of hunger sparking again and he shook his head slowly, gawping. "Ohh, my dear…" he murmured appreciatively, climbing out of bed and meeting her at the doorway. "You are the most exquisite thing I've ever seen." Then he swooped in on her, picking her up and swinging her about like she weighed no more than a sack of flour. She shrieked in surprise and delight, and he grinned back, leaning in for a passionate kiss. "You know - I don't recall my carrying you across the threshold, do you?"

She giggled, arms tightening round his shoulders, kissing him again for all she was worth. "Nope. Definitely not. Guess we missed out on a vital part of owning a home together."

"Indeed," he agreed, carrying her towards the bed. "Though isn't it just like us to wait until there's less home than there used to be." He laid her down gently.

"It's cause we like to do things backwards – out of order." She grinned again as he covered her body with his, kissing her slowly, tongue teasing along the inside of her lip.

"Speaking of out of order…" he murmured, starting to trail lower, his mouth licking and sucking its way down her torso. "All is not right with the universe until I make my wife come."

She let out a breathy laugh, certain she'd never forget _that_ sentence or the way he said it. "Can't have the cosmos hanging in the balance then – seems like it's up to you."

He chuckled, gripping her thighs and tugging her down towards the end of the bed, sliding off to kneel before her. "Well, my dear…" He pressed a kiss to each of her thighs, and she could feel his breath on her. "I _have_ always wanted to show you the stars…"

And then his mouth was on her, tongue flicking at her nub, pressing lightly there, making her groan. He started making love to her with his mouth, licking along her entrance, swirling and sucking at her nub and every so often, just when she least expected it – darting sharply inside. He was ruthless, relentless – working her to the edge again and again – seemingly dedicated to making it last as long as possible. She wriggled, she bucked, she thrashed – her groans becoming higher-pitched, moaning turning to keening as he worked up an expert rhythm, applying the perfect balance of gentleness and pressure; of fast and slow – making her clutch at the sheets, at his shoulders, his hair – fingers digging into his scalp.

This time she had no problems with his name, using _John_ as the only word she knew – she whispered it, she cried it, she moaned it, she sighed on it – and, finally, when he had decided to show her a measure of mercy, when he'd decided to bring her to the brink again and let her tumble over the edge, let the wave crash down upon her, let the ripples of pleasure reach ecstasy, let her see those stars he'd described – she screamed it.

She was still shaking as he climbed up her body, arms encircling her and pulling her up with him, cradling her head on his chest. He pressed a soft kiss into her hair, and she lay there wondering if she'd ever move again.

"Ohh, my darling…do you have any idea what you look like when you do that? Like a – a _goddess_. I married a goddess," he stated with more than a hint of pride in his voice.

Clara huffed out a laugh, all her body was capable of at that moment. "Hmm – does that make you a god?"

"A god?" He chortled. "No – no, no, no, no! I'm very clever, you see – I married above me." He sounded extremely pleased with himself. "To improve my status."

She giggled into his chest, finding the energy to raise her head to look up at him. "How far above you?"

"Oh, very, _very _far – it should've been impossible to marry you." He grinned at her.

"Impossible, hm?" A smile played at her lips at the familiar term. "Soo, you were what - my…manservant?" She cocked an eyebrow at him, smirking.

"_Manservant_?"

"Yeah. Don't all goddesses have a hot, naked manservant to worship at their feet?" She batted her eyelashes at him.

"Ahh," he replied, nodding. "And to cook them breakfast?"

"Of course," she agreed, trailing a lazy finger over his chest. "But first – to bring them water?"

He cupped her face, kissing her gently. "Feeling parched? Parched and peckish?"

She nodded into him, returning the kiss and sighing into his mouth. "Not feeling very goddess-like at the moment, I'm afraid."

"Well," he pecked her on the mouth. "We can't have that." He moved off the bed, careful to replace her head on the pillow and hunted for his underwear. "So is the hot, naked manservant permitted clothing so as not to scandalise the next-door-neighbours?"

She propped herself up on an elbow, admiring the view as he bent over to put on his underwear. "Mmm – dressing gown only."

He turned, eyebrows shooting up into his hair. "Only?"

"Mm hmm," she nodded. "Can't very well be a naked manservant if he's not ready to be naked again whenever she wants."

"Ahh." He sauntered over to her, leaning in for a lazy kiss. "That's how you prefer me, then?"

She hummed into his mouth, fingers stroking his face. "Yep. And as goddess, I decree that upstairs is clothing-optional."

"Mmm." He nibbled on her bottom lip. "I like a woman who knows how to wield her power. Beautiful and brilliant."

She chuckled, the kiss deepening. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Will it?" His voice had dropped, his hand brushing down her shoulder, ghosting over her breasts. "Everywhere, hm…"

She let out a little gasp, then recalled her previous request as her jelly-like limbs struggled to hold him. "Water?"

He kissed her on the forehead, then moved off the bed to make a great, sweeping bow. "As you wish, m'lady." He kissed her hand, then bounded out of the room.

She lay there a moment, dopey grin on her face as she listened to the sounds of him retrieve his dressing gown from the bedroom, muttering something to himself, then descend the stairs with all the energy of an exuberant five-year-old. He really did become more Doctor-like the happier he was, didn't he? She'd forgotten how he could flit about like that. Must mean he was pretty happy, then. She smiled, stretching her limbs and snuggling down into the sheets, her eyelids growing heavy.

Her mind drifted, leading to visions of conversations she might have with the Doctor about –

Oh. Hm. How _would_ they talk about what had just happened?

She could just imagine how a conversation like that might go…

"_So you know you and I shagged during that last month."_

_He would fly back from her like she'd smacked him, hands opening and closing spasmodically. "Eh?"_

"_Yeah, we couldn't stop. Usually twice a day – there were definitely some days where we made a go for three times. And then there was that one day when we didn't even get out of bed, and you used your buried Time Lord timey wimey-ness to see how long you could make me –"_

_And he would flee from her, fingers pressed to his ears, singing loudly to drown her out. _

She giggled into her pillow, simply envisioning how much she might be able to shock the Doctor without thinking of what the _other_ part of that conversation would mean. Nope. She'd focus on all of the things she might be able to list – all of the creative ways she could spend time with John...

Sleep was just starting to overtake her when she was awakened by the sound of the front door closing. Eyes snapping open, she wondered what John needed outside; then remembered he might have gone to retrieve the paper.

All of a sudden, there was the sound of something shattering, followed by a muffled grunting.

Clara sat up immediately, ears perked. "John?" Had he dropped something whilst trying to balance the plates on a tray?

She sighed, figuring he needed help cleaning up whatever had been spilled, manservant or not. She smirked to herself. Stumbling out of bed, she'd just pulled on her dressing gown when there was a choked shout.

"_Clara_! _Cla-mph_!"

The door – the crash – oh God…

"John!"

Dashing down the stairs, she stopped cold when the entryway came into view.

Two policemen. One skinny and nasty-looking; the other big and burly. The burly one had an arm around John's neck in a chokehold. The skinny one…

"Well, looky looky – he married his companion, how sweet," the skinny one taunted in a nasally New York drawl.

Clara opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then her eyes widened as the skinny one produced a pistol.

"Okay, missus – ya got thirty seconds to go get the watch…" He cocked the hammer and pressed the gun against John's temple. "Or I put a bullet in your human hubby's brain."


	18. Chapter 18

**Quick Author's Note: **If you've ever seen Joe Pesci in anything, I wrote the skinny one with his voice in mind (if you have any trouble reading the dialect.)

***See end for more Author's Notes**

* * *

Clara's gaze flitted from the gun to John's face, contorted in pain as he fought at the lunk of an arm slowly crushing his windpipe. "Let him go," she pleaded.

"Twenty-five…"

"Please, just – okay, I…"

She couldn't give it to them. She wouldn't. Needed another plan.

"I don't have it, okay?"

"Clock's tickin', doll – twenty…"

"Do you really think we'd keep it here? You think we're that stupid?"

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Yeah, actually – I do. Eighteen…"

"I don't have it! I can – I can get it for you - but– but you have to give me time!"

"Sure. Take all the time ya need. How's fifteen seconds?" The burly one sniggered.

Panicked now, she turned and fled up the stairs, mind racing as she burst into her room, diving under the bed and grabbing the satchel. Pulling out her laptop, she tucked it under her arm, then felt for the other item, which she stuck in her dressing gown pocket. She opened up her laptop and, balancing it on her hand, ran out of the room and down the stairs again until the policemen came into view.

"That's not the –" The skinny one's face turned thunderous. "You've got _five _seconds, dollface."

She somehow managed to keep her voice calm, though her words tumbled out fast. "I told you I didn't have it here – we kept it inside the TARDIS so no one could find it. Cause we knew something like this might happen."

The skinny one squinted at her, clucking his tongue. "You can call the TARDIS with that?" The gun wavered.

"Of course I can," she lied.

He shook his head. "Nah, you're bluffin'." He pressed the gun into John's temple, making John whimper softly.

Clara clicked a file on her desktop. The Doctor's voice chimed through, loud and clear.

_You have just activated Emergency Protocol One. This protocol –_

She clicked it off. "Still think I'm bluffing?" She couldn't help stealing a glance at John, who looked horrified at the device in her hand - or hearing his own voice coming from it. Or both.

The skinny one studied her for a minute, then started cackling with laughter, his shoulders shaking. The burly one joined in as well, a hearty-sounding _heh heh heh_ filling the room. "A sound file?" He sneered at her. "Ya really think I'm gonna believe a _sound file_ is gonna call a spaceship?"

"No." She whipped out the sonic screwdriver from her pocket, thumb clicking it open as though she'd used it a thousand times. "But this will."

The skinny one's laughter died, his squinty eyes widening a bit. "What's that?" He asked suspiciously. "Some kinda weapon?"

"Sonic screwdriver." She studied it like the Doctor would, stroking it appreciatively. "Last time I checked it has – eight thousand settings? Well, I guess – eight thousand-seven hundred-ninety-two, but who's counting?" She flashed him a smile. John was watching her, wide-eyed, his eyes glued to the sonic.

The skinny one snickered. "Tryin' to scare me with a screwdriver now? What – does it make some sorta sonic boom? We all gotta cover our ears?" He waved his hand not holding the gun.

"No, nothing like that. Well, at least – I'm not using that setting right now." She shrugged casually.

The skinny one nudged the burly one with the butt of the pistol, fuming. "Take it, Brothera mine." The burly one took it, pressing it again to John's temple. Then the skinny one pulled out a nightstick, slapping it menacingly in the palm of his hand. "All right, doll – I'll give you _one_ last chance to get the watch or…" He whacked John savagely across the skull, making him grunt in pain and Clara cry out. "Things are gonna start to get ugly and uh – when you get your human hubby back, he might be a bit messed up in the head, ya know what I'm sayin'?"

She was breathing faster now, tears threatening to creep into her voice at seeing John's head loll to the side, dazed look on his face. "That's up to you." She cleared her throat, trying to find that easy confidence she'd been faking so well. "I told you I can call the TARDIS right now and get you the watch. There's just one problem, though."

The skinny one's glare was positively vicious, and he raised the club over John's head again. "Dollface, my patience is –"

"Do you really think he'd leave me here on my own, completely defenseless? The Doctor activated the HADS right before he left." She was speaking lightning-fast now. "HADS stands for Hostile Alien Defense System. The TARDIS will seek out and destroy anything alien in her path. Now she doesn't like me too much – never has, really - we've never gotten on – but you?" She gave him a look as though she might fear for him, her voice dropping. "She's been away from him for two months; she misses him, and you've just hurt him. What do you think she'll do to you?"

His hand lowered, like he might've been considering her words.

Clara seized on his silence. "You said things were gonna get ugly in here – but how about a spaceship? Ever seen a spaceship get ugly? Cause I have…"

The burly one spoke for the first time, his voice thick and deep and ponderous. "I dunno, Bruddera mine – she might be tellin' the truth. I remember hearin' about the HADS way back a long time ago when we was –"

The skinny one turned to him sharply. "What'd I tell ya about talkin', huh? Who did we say was gonna do all the talkin'? You stick to what you do best, Brothera mine." He smacked him lightly across both cheeks.

The burly one would not be deterred, however. "I'm just sayin' – maybe we should figger out where it is foist and –"

"Like your idea last night? Our dearly departed little Brother – may he rest in peace – listenin' to you, goin' in all guns blazin' without a –"

"_Oof_!" The burly one grunted, then again because –

John had fought his way out of the chokehold, swinging an arm into the burly one's stomach, twisting the arm and, using the burly one's bulk against him, toppling him backwards, wrenching the gun from his grasp as he crashed to the floor. He backed up, gun pointed at both of them, breathing fast.

"Now I want you both to listen very, very carefully." The burly one rose slowly, hands raised. "I'm going to give _you_ ten seconds to leave my home immediately and never return." His arm swung between the two policemen, his eyes cold. "I don't know what you think my wife is involved in, but I don't care – you deal with me and leave her out of it."

The skinny one seemed unperturbed, smirking at John. "What're ya gonna do – shoot us?" He shook his head. "Nah – ya wouldn't."

"Don't test me," John warned.

"Oh, I believe _you_ would, pal – I mean look at ya – I don't think you're messin' around." He crossed his arms defiantly. "But you're not John Smith."

John blinked. "What? Of course I'm John Smith."

The skinny one hooted with laughter. "Aww, ya did it again, didn't ya? Made up a cute little story for yourself, somethin' to escape bein' him for a while, how sweet." He stepped towards John, daring him to back down. "But underneath all that – you're the Doctor. You're the thousand-year-old pacifist alien who eschews violence whenever he can. Ya may have lived through wars, sure, committed a few genocides here and there but when it comes down to it – ya don't kill people."

John looked flummoxed, but his arm didn't waver. "You think I'm a -…okay…so – normally, I would take pity on you due to the state of your mind, but that _ends_ when it involves the people I love."

The skinny one walked straight up to John until his forehead touched the barrel of the pistol, his gaze locked on John's face. John stared him down, refusing to budge.

"Do it," he taunted.

John readjusted his grip on the pistol so it shoved into the skinny one's forehead. "Don't think I won't," he said darkly.

A tense moment, where Clara could see a muscle jumping in his jaw, his anger igniting. Clara cautiously walked down a few steps. "John…"

"Stay back, Clara."

Her voice seemed to have had an effect, though – she could see the fury cooling, his rational mind taking over his instinct.

"Go upstairs to the bedroom and lock the door."

She jerked back. "What? Um – _no._"

"Please just do as I say and don't argue." His voice was tight, but she could hear the desperate edge to it, the plea underneath it.

"No, I'm not leaving –"

"Clara –"

"I'm _not_ leaving –

"Just please –"

"You don't know what's going on!" The words left her mouth before she could stop them.

The skinny one let out a chuckle. "Walked right into a domestic situation, huh, Brothera mine? Whaddya say we just let these two go at it and wait till they kill each other and then take the watch?" There was a low rumble of laughter from the burly one. "That's what happens when ya marry a gal from the twenty-first century, Doctor." He waggled his fingers. "They get all these _ideas_ in their heads, won't stay in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant, ya know what I'm sayin'?" He grinned cheekily.

John's ire flamed up again. "Refer to my wife in that way again, and I'll –"

"You'll what? Shoot me?"

John's jaw clenched, glowering at him.

The skinny one started backing away now, hands slung in his pockets as if to demonstrate just how _un_threatening John was. "Like I said – ya don't have it in ya. You'da shot me by now, but ya won't – cause you're still the Doctor." He came to stand by his brother. "They gave us another angle, though, didn't they, Brothera mine?" He elbowed the burly one, and they both snickered.

"_Heh heh heh_ – yeah, they sure gave us another angle all right, Brudder."

Clara didn't like where this was going.

So she crept down another stair, hand still poised with the sonic over her laptop. "Remember I can still call the TARDIS."

But they both seemed unconcerned now. "Yeah, dollface?" The skinny one didn't even look at her. "But the question is – how _fast_ can you get it here?"

She swallowed. "Pretty fast."

John's eyes flicked to her. "Clara, I told you to _stay back_!"

"I'll do it," she threatened, walking down the final stair.

The skinny one shook his head, clearly amused. "Maybe ya shoulda listened to your hubby, dollface."

"What?"

"Brothera mine…_get her_."

The burly one lunged towards her, making her jump back in reflex, dropping her laptop and the sonic and stumbling backwards, falling onto the stairs. She'd recovered just enough to try to scramble for her footing when he loomed into view, reached for her and –

_Bang! Bang!_ Two shots rang out in rapid succession.

He teetered a moment before dropping to his knees, seemingly puzzled that he was landing on his face and yet was unable to stop it.

Clara's terrified gaze went to John, who aimed the gun at the skinny one. "Any more questions about what, _exactly_, I'll do to protect the people I love?" He didn't even look fazed.

The skinny one's hands raised slowly, but his expression was murderous. "That was my Brother."

"He was threatening my wife."

"She's not your wife, _ya moron_!"

John scoffed at him. "What – of course she's my wife!"

The skinny one hit his forehead with the heels of his hands. "No, she's not – she's some twenty-first century human doll ya picked up during your travels who you're gonna forget about after she dies or moves on or –" He stopped abruptly, smiling slowly. "Although…if you want her to _be_ your wife, I can make that happen for ya."

"She already is – stop staying that!"

He turned to Clara. "Whaddya think, dollface? Wanna keep him as your hubby? Have you enjoyed playin' house?"

Clara regained her footing and stood up. "Stop it…"

He spread his arms wide. ""You can have all this - the house, white picket fence, coupla brats runnin' around – the whole nine yards. All ya gotta do is give me the watch."

Oh, how she hated him. "I'm _never_ giving you the watch."

He leered at her. "I see you want to, though. You're thinkin' about it, huh?"

"No," she said, perhaps too forcefully.

"Methinks she doth protest a helluva lot," he misquoted. "But here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you one hour to think it over. Ah –" He held up a hand when Clara opened her mouth to insist again. "- one hour to think about it…cause if ya don't, here's what's gonna happen. Your hubby here just murdered a police officer in cold blood."

"A man has a right to protect his home," John said evenly.

The skinny one moved his head back and forth like he was weighing what John said. "Eh – maybe he does, but I remember it differently. See, what I remember is I came here with my partner to talk to Mr. John Smith about the fire and he went all loony tunes on us and pulled a gun, killin' my partner right in fronta my eyes. And that's what I'm gonna tell all my pals down at the station, and we're gonna come back here and clap your ass in a prison cell to rot for the resta your life –"

"The rest of my life?" John let out a short laugh. "I would have a right to a fair trial first. I know how the American justice system works."

"Yeah, but that's for American citizens – and things usually tend to go more sideways for cop killers - if they don't string your ass up a tree instead." He smiled maliciously. "And just to give ya a little extra incentive – I'll make sure that Dollface here gets the same treatment – except she'll go to the loony bin insteada prison. And it's the 1940's, Dollface, so the way they deal with the loonies is usually with nice things like electric shocks and lobotomies." He'd backed to the door. "So – it's your choice, Dollface. Knowin' that your hubby's rottin' in prison, swingin' in a tree and either way – no more Doctor. Except you _won't_ know it cause you'll be a vegetable, strapped to a bed and pissin' yourself." His hand moved to the door knob. "Or – ya get to live happily ever after with your human hubby. Everybody wins." He grinned, opening the door. "Oh – and in case ya got any ideas about makin' a run for it – two shots were fired here so that means everyone and their mother's already called the cops. I'll hold 'em off for an hour – unless I see ya try to run. And then…" His look turned threatening. "Deal's off." And he walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

* * *

***Author's Note: **Hello, dear readers! Because I am aware that the pace has picked up, I will be trying to update slightly faster than usual, especially with crazy evil cliffhangers (and yes, my goal is to get at least two keyboard smashes and get accused of being Moffat at least twice per chapter. ;)) Also because I'm actually breaking scenes up now since I'm really big on consistency of tone – so never fear, the next chapter picks up *immediately* after this. And yes, it will be posted in less than three days.

Again, a gigantic THANK YOU to all who follow, favorite, and feed me feedback om nom nom. :-p You guys are FANTASTIC! :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: **Just another THANK YOU to all who follow, favorite and leave feedback. It has made writing this story about 1,000 times more enjoyable! :) We're nearing the end, my lovely readers – which means expect every chapter ending from now until the end to make you hate me. ;) I got called Moffat a bunch of times last time – a badge of honor I wear proudly. :-p Enjoy!

* * *

Clara sat down inelegantly on the bottom step, letting out the breath she'd been holding since she first came down the stairs. Her head was spinning, but she knew that wasn't anything compared to -

"John?"

His back was to her, shoulders heaving as he watched the retreating form of the skinny one. His hand still gripped the pistol tightly.

"Are you –"

"What…the _hell_…was that?!" He turned around slowly, his cold façade melted. "How do you know those men? Who were they? Why were they –" His eyes widened at something off to her right.

"What is it?" Clara followed his gaze to a spot on the carpet. A spot on the carpet that was currently oozing from the disintegrating body of the alien policeman. "Eugh." She slid to the left, rising and instinctually reaching for John's arm to shield him from it. Or perhaps from the existence of aliens altogether. "Let's just keep away from that."

He evaded her, staring in fascinated horror at the body. "How is that…what – did they use hydrochloric acid? Some sort of…biochemical warfare." He was eyeing Clara with more than a hint of suspicion, his wheels visibly turning before closing his eyes, and letting out a soft sigh. "Ohh."

She moved a hand to his arm again. "John, can you just – "

He flinched at her touch, backing away and shaking his head at her. "It all makes sense now," he muttered.

Clara's heart skipped a beat. "It does?"

He continued to shake his head, raising the hand that still held the gun, seemingly surprised to find it there, like he'd forgotten about it. He quickly discharged the bullets onto the floor, then stuck it in his dressing gown pocket and started pacing, long legs taking him from one end of the entryway to the other. "All those things that didn't quite add up – the way you've been acting since you came back; how you've avoided me as if you'd been, well - _ordered _to; and then – your greatest fear last night was for a _watch_. You said it had been your mum's, but that's not true, is it?"

Clara closed her eyes. "No," she admitted quietly.

"No," he confirmed, shaking his head. "Because if it had been just your mum's watch, then those men wouldn't have known about it, and they wouldn't have shown up here, demanding it. And then - that one calling me 'Doctor.' You called me 'Doctor' once – don't think I'd forgotten it." He shot her a bitter look.

Her mouth went dry.

"I dismissed it at the time – I thought you were just overwrought, but then – 'Doctor, Doctor, Doctor' – over and over again." His voice turned hard, his look accusatory. "Don't you find that a bit odd, Clara? Those men using the same name as you did? And not Doctor Smith, mistaking me for a man with a doctorate, but _the_ Doctor – as if that were my only name."

Her mouth opened, but her words stuck in her throat.

He started gesticulating, his words coming faster and faster. "And then your – your metal book and that device; talking about calling a ship, but you referred to the ship as 'she' – and how you got my voice to come out of your metal book and _then _–" He stopped abruptly, sharp-edged grief washing over his face. "How he said you weren't my wife. How he said he could make it all _real_ if you brought him the watch. Because that's not just a fob watch, is it?"

She shook her head, barely able to choke out a reply. "No."

He halted where he stood, turning and bracing himself against the wall as if the sight of her pained him. "How long, Clara?"

"How long -?"

"How long was your assignment?" His voice was slightly muffled.

"M-my assignment -?"

"Your assignment to me?"

She shook her head, uncomprehending. "I don't –"

"How long have I been your mark?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "My _what_?"

He whirled around, face contorted in anguish. "How long have you been a spy?"

Her mouth dropped open. "A _spy_?"

"That's what this is, isn't it? He resumed his pacing, gesturing animatedly again. "'Doctor' is my code name – the name you used to refer to me when you communicated with them. And the TARDIS – an acronym for your handler, I assume? Saying she'd be angry if they hurt me. And referring to me as an alien – because what? I'm not a comrade? Not from the Mother Country like you and them? But then you slipped up, didn't you?" He stopped again, stricken. "I was supposed to be there last night for them to assassinate me because you couldn't do it yourself."

She shook her head forcefully, his stinging accusation cutting deeply. "_No. No!_ You think I was supposed to…" She couldn't bring herself to finish that sentence. "I _love _you – how could you think I'm even _capable _of -"

"But you weren't supposed to fall in love with me, were you?" His voice broke in half on the word "love."

Why did he have to keep saying things that just grazed the truth? "John…that wasn't -"

"And the watch – it's not just a watch; it's what's inside. So – what is it? Coordinates? Missile codes? List of names loyal to your cause? Or maybe a list of other marks for you to -"

"Okay!" She held her hands up, unwilling to listen to him question her like this any longer. "Okay." She looked him steadily in the face, walking slowly up to him. "I'm not a spy, John. All those things you think you know…" She sighed, mind still spinning. "God…you want to know what my cause is? You want to know who I'm loyal to? I've been loyal to only one cause and one person the entire time I've been here." She stood before him now and grasped his hands before he could move away. "You."

He shook his head, like he was afraid to believe her. "No – but the – the devices, the code names for things – the biochemical warfare – having the resources to record my voice without my knowledge and…" He squinted at her. "Are you in the mob?"

She very successfully did not roll her eyes. "_No_."

"If it's not missile codes or a list of names inside the watch, then what is it, eh? Drugs? Jewels? Counterfeited money? Some sort of contraband?"

She couldn't stop herself from scoffing this time. "No, nothing like that."

"But it's valuable, isn't it?" His voice rose again. "So valuable they were willing to shoot me over it?"

"Yes, but –"

"Because I just _killed_ a man over it, Clara!" He wrenched his hand from hers to point at the spot where he'd shot the alien policeman. He was breathing fast, wild-eyed. "And I did it to protect you, and I'd do it again – I'd do it a hundred times over to ensure your safety, but –" He had to take a breath. "- that's on _my_ conscience," he finished raggedly.

She closed her eyes against her greatest shame. He'd managed to protect her, of course, but she'd utterly failed to protect him. Failed to follow Rule 1 of traveling with the Doctor. "I know," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

He let out a long sigh, all the fight seeming to leak out with it, his shoulders and head slumping. He was quiet for a bit. "Don't be. It was my decision, and…and I meant what I said. I'd do it again. Just – just tell me…" Taking a stride towards her, he clutched her head between his hands. "_Tell _me that it was worth it. That whatever's inside that watch is so important to you that I didn't just kill a man for -"

"It _is_." She grabbed his hands, relieved that he trusted her enough to touch her again. "You didn't, I promise you; it _is_ important. What's inside that watch is more valuable than anything else in the entire universe. And not just to me…to everyone else, too."

"Everyone else?" He regarded her quizzically. "What do you mean – who else is it valuable to?"

"Everyone," she stated emphatically. "Everyone out there – all the people on Earth; all the – creatures – every planet and every star you can see and –" She gave a small smile. "-all the ones that haven't been formed yet, too."

"Planets – stars – _creatures_ -?" He spluttered. "What does any of that have to do with what's in the watch?"

She raised a hand tentatively to his face and stroked her fingertips down the side of it. "You must know," she murmured. "Deep down inside – you've always known. You're not…_him_, but sometimes…you say things. I know it's there. "

Was that a flicker of fear behind those green eyes? "Know what? Who's – him?"

"Think about it," she said encouragingly. "All those times you've talked about other worlds, or wanting to dance with me across the stars – or give me the universe because we'd travel to all the stars, planets and galaxies." She tilted her head lovingly at him. "Or how you said this morning that you should've been born with two hearts. Or how you said that there's a world out there where you were not born John Smith…"

There was a definite flicker now, but it was immediately snuffed out. "I say things, yes. Some men woo with flowers and chocolates; I woo with words. You're writing a science-fiction fantastical novel so – apparently they had an impact."

"It's more than that – and you know it. What about…Amy and Rory?"

He gasped softly, looking wounded before covering with a thickly furrowed brow. "Amy and Rory? A couple we met in Central Park two months ago? What do they have to do with anything?"

"Oh, no." She cupped his face. "You can't hide behind there. If you'd only met them two months ago, then why do you look so sad? And how could you have known their names?"

For the first time, he looked properly frightened. "You're saying that…that something happened, that…I lost some of my memory?"

She ached for him. "Yeah."

He gave a barely imperceptible shake of his head. "No," he whispered, then continued to shake his head, denying more and more emphatically. "No. No! No no no no no _no_!" He pushed back from her again. "If that were the case, then why would the policemen have been so focused on the watch? Clearly everything hinges on that!"

Clara let out an exhausted noise of frustration, not wanting to revisit the spy or mob angle again. "John…" She groaned.

His hands flew about him. "Planets – stars – creatures – two hearts – _Amy and Rory_ – what do _any _of those have to do with what's in the watch?!"

"Everything!" She cried, intent to be gentle with him momentarily forgotten. "I'm trying to tell you, but you're not listening!"

"I _am_ listening!" He countered. "I've asked you several times now what's inside that watch, and you keep avoiding the question!" He pressed his fingers to the sides of his head, teeth clenching. "_Why_ won't you answer me?"

"Because you won't believe me!" She shouted, immediately clamping a hand over her mouth. She sighed, pressing the heels of her hands to her forehead at the throbbing ache that had suddenly formed there and moved towards the living room, flopping down on the sofa. Maybe she could think better with some distance from the events that had shredded the start of her new life with him into confetti.

He followed her, though he still seemed too tense to sit, standing before her to wait for his answer.

"I could just show you," she mumbled, mostly to herself. "I could. I could go get it and give it to you, and have you open it, and that'd be it. It would all be over." She looked at him longingly, a lump in her throat. "It'd all be over," she repeated, her voice breaking. "And I don't want it to be – not yet."

John's look immediately turned distressed. "Darling…" In two strides, he'd joined her on the sofa, enveloping her in his arms. His fingers stroked her head soothingly. "Sweetheart, you don't have to show me if you don't want to. Not if it's going to cause you this much pain."

She clung to him, wondering how many more times she'd be called those pet names she'd somehow grown to love.

"But…" He pulled back slightly from her, clasping her head. "You _must_ tell me. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. I promise."

She studied him a moment, biting her lip. "You'll believe me?"

He smiled softly, before pointing two index fingers at his chest, making a simultaneous criss-cross motion. "Cross my hear…t." He immediately looked down at his right finger as though it had a mind of its own, before sliding it to the left. "_One_ heart – crossed both times." He forced another smile, but this one was shaky.

Hers was bittersweet. "There it is," she said softly. "You're ready, aren't you? It's time."

"Ready? Yes, I'm ready to hear what it is. So, my dear…" He found her hands again, squeezing. "What's inside the watch?"

She brought his hands to her lips, kissing each one tenderly, bowing her head over them. Then she took a steadying breath before looking directly into his eyes. "You are. You're the Doctor. You're a thousand-year-old alien who turned human to hide from alien assassins. Everything that makes you an alien – a Time Lord – is inside that watch. And it's time for you to come out."


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: **Hello, my lovely readers! Just a ginormous THANK YOU again – to all who follow, favorite and leave feedback. From more accusations of being Moffat to being told that people now ship John and Clara (hee) to three lines of keyboard smashing – I love hearing it ALL! You guys are fantabulous. Just a few chapters to go – we're nearing the end, but in the meantime – enjoy!

* * *

He didn't believe her. Of course, he didn't believe her.

Despite all the evidence – the disintegrating body, the threats, the talk of the TARDIS, the sonic screwdriver and Clara's laptop – he tore away from her, insisting again that she was a spy or a member of the mob and had unwittingly involved him in her clandestine carryings on with unsavoury types. That her insistence that no code words had been used, that the TARDIS was his beloved spaceship; that they had called him an alien because he was – well...it was obviously a bit much for him to swallow. He tried turning it back on her, questioning her sanity, patiently explaining that the story she was writing was just that: a story - but he couldn't explain why the policemen would think the same thing if they'd never read her story and she'd never met them before. She then tried a different tactic: she started questioning him about his life. And it was only then that that prior flicker of fear became a haze of confusion.

Questions about his childhood were initially met with resistance, but when he started scrambling for names of childhood mates, he faltered. Names like Sarah, Vicki and Jamie made sense, but the Brigadier, Romana and Ace did not (and then he recanted, identifying Romana as an ex.) Talking about family was problematic as well: he could only come up with Susan, who he first called his cousin, then his little sister, then muttered something about how she had called him "Grandfather." He finally admitted that Gallifrey couldn't have been an island off the British Isles (though he'd frantically located a map in an effort to prove her wrong). He haltingly revealed that he actually wasn't aware of how he earned them any money or what his occupation was, though he knew he'd been an engineer before. She'd finally produced the watch and tried to just make him hold it, but he recoiled from it now as though it might bite, shoving it to the end of the sofa. Yet, when she started quietly prodding him about memories of their life together, he was quick to reply.

"Our first date? I took you to that marketplace, remember? I was trying so hard to impress you, but then I offered you some exotic fruit, which you didn't like." He smiled wistfully. "You made this – this face, nose all scrunched up, and I was so nervous that you might – I don't know - judge me for it. But you took everything in stride, didn't you? You just set it down and walked away with me, wanting to know everything about the – people there."

Clara almost asked him to describe the people, but she didn't, keenly aware of the ticking clock. Her thumb flicked at her ring as she searched for other related questions to ask.

Oh. No. She couldn't. It would be like pouring salt into a smarting wound, newly ripped open by the alien policeman's taunts and promises. It would hit far too close to home for both of them, erode the tenuous bond they'd formed. He'd hate her for the last hour of his existence.

_Might make all this easier, then…_

She closed her eyes, steeling herself with a breath and tried to keep her voice calm. "John…tell me how you proposed to me."

But instead of downcast eyes and injured puppy dog, his features softened into something loving and beautiful. "I took you dancing," he answered, gazing at her.

Clara blinked. "What?"

He looked down, smile playing across his lips at the thought. "It was to apologise at first because I'd…" He trailed off, a tiny fold in his forehead. " – hurt you. I'd done…something – to upset you. So I found somewhere with – with all those lights." His eyes sparkled as though they could reflect them. "All those brightly coloured lights that lit up the sky. And there was a – a meteor shower. You said it looked like diamonds falling from the heavens, and I offered to catch one for you. And then when you looked up to watch them, I knelt down…"

She should've known – he was a thousand years old: of _course_ he'd have a proposal story at the ready. He might've been describing his proposal to River or to his first wife on Gallifrey. Or for any of the other dozens of times he'd been married in between. "Okay." She smiled bravely, ignoring the stinging sensation in her eyes at hearing someone else's beginning to a love story with him.

So she asked him about their anniversary. He said it was the fall, then stammered when asked to name the month and couldn't think of the day. She asked him what year, and he couldn't decide between 1943 and 1944. She asked him where they got married, and he couldn't recall whether it was inside a church or not; the name of the city, town or village was lost to him as well. She asked him how long they'd been separated, and he could only grumble something about "a long time." He thought it was 1946, but admitted that it had felt longer than two years, then changed his mind and said it felt shorter. He scratched at his temple, fingers finding their way into his hair, digging into his scalp as though they could burrow through to his brain and find the answers he needed.

Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she finally asked him to tell her about the first time they made love. He went from insulted to bewildered to horrified within the span of a few seconds. His features crumpled, and he choked out that this morning had _felt _like the first time, but he knew it wasn't…until he finally confessed that he couldn't remember and buried his head in her chest, his shoulders shaking.

She stroked his head, trying to soothe him, but she couldn't stop her own tears from forming. He clung to her, protesting through his tears that she _was _his wife, that he knew it, that he felt it, that he…

_I wish I were. I wish I were. I wish I –_

"But you are," he raised his head, taking hers between his hands, and Clara realised she'd spoken aloud. "I _know_ what I feel for you, my darling, and I _know _it's real. Everything else – you're right – nothing makes sense, but _you_…" He pressed his forehead to hers, and Clara looped her arms round his neck, her own shoulders quaking.

"It isn't," she whispered, her voice rough. She pulled back, thumbs caressing his temples. "I know that you think it's real, but it isn't. I was supposed to be your friend – just visiting you to work on my book. None of this was supposed to happen."

Now he pulled her hands away, clapping them between his palms, something like hope flickering across his face. "Your book…" He rubbed her hands. "But…but that's _our_ story, right? You and – him. That fantastical love story?"

Clara smiled sadly. "I know that's what you think, but…it isn't. He isn't – like that. Like _you_." She tilted her head at him, biting her lip to keep the tears at bay. "This…" she began, glancing around at the walls of the home they'd shared. "This isn't possible with him. This…" A sob escaped, and her hand flew up to her mouth. "This was my only chance," she finished, her head falling into her hands, the sorrow overtaking her at last.

His arms were around her instantly, and now he was the one comforting her, murmuring to her. "I don't care – I don't _care_ what happens to me, but you – my darling, my love – I can't _bear_ the thought of you being alone. Alone with a man who doesn't know what he has – who can't give you everything you deserve."

She shook her head against his chest, trying to regain control of herself. "It doesn't matter." She raised herself from him, taking deep breaths to calm herself. "Even if this is what I want – the universe needs him." She dashed at her eyes with the back of her hands. "And I need him," she admitted. "As much as I want you, as much as I want –" She pressed her lips together, inhaling deeply and letting it out in a long exhale. "I need him. I need him to get me back to my life, to reality. I've got kids – they're not mine, but – I look after them. I'm responsible for them and couldn't leave them." She took another steadying breath, hoping the recitation of her responsibilities could will her into acceptance.

He nodded slowly, his eyes wide. Then he sniffled, wiping a hand across his face before letting out an embarrassed chuckle. "Uh – sweetheart – would you, um…I've a handkerchief upstairs that would be very useful right now . Would you mind retrieving it for me?"

Clara was up in a flash, grateful to be _doing_ something instead of sitting there and watching the minutes tick away. "Of course –where is it?"

"Top drawer of the bureau. It'll be smoky, but…better than nothing, I suppose." He smiled weakly, still gripping her hand as she stood. He was staring straight ahead of him, and his mouth worked like he was chewing on a thought. Then he tugged on her hand, pulling her down to the sofa once more.

"I thought –"

"I just need to kiss you right now." He trailed his hands down the sides of her face, his eyes so full of emotion, it threatened a fresh bout of tears. "My darling Clara," he murmured, then swept her into his arms, his lips demanding, his hold desperate. She responded, her hands going to his shoulders, mussing his hair, pressing to the sides of his face. Their breath mingled, both emitting soft gasps in the midst of fervent kisses. He kissed her with abandon – unleashing that rawness on her and she drank it in, her own mouth insatiable. Then he broke off abruptly from her, though his grip did not lessen. "If I keep going, I'll never stop. And I _know_ I could do this forever." It sounded like a confession. He tenderly kissed her forehead before leaning into it. "I love you so much," he whispered.

Clara tried to savour the moment: the wash of his breath across her face, his fingers tangled in her hair, the way their cheeks kept bumping together when the other shifted. "I love you, too." She resisted the urge to climb into his lap and never let go.

But the sound of his sniffling recalled her to his initial request, so she squeezed his hand and rose again. "I'll be right back."

Taking the stairs two by two, she could feel the pull of the precious seconds she spent away from him whilst also aware of the minutes that heralded the return of the Family. She opened the master bedroom door, coughing at the smell and dashed for the bureau. Rifling through the contents of the top drawer, she came upon the small cloth sack, which brought a new lump to her throat. She would not spend another minute upstairs, though, and she grabbed the least sooty handkerchief, shaking it out as she bolted down the stairs, her dressing gown billowing behind her.

He was sat in the same position, head in his hands. She held the handkerchief out to him.

"I tried to shake it out, but it might need another one. Else someone might mistake you for a chimney sweep instead of a manservant." She forced a smile.

He raised his head but did not look at her, her attempt at levity falling flat. "Thanks." He wiped at his face gingerly, as though heeding her warning before blowing his nose loudly.

She curled up to him, throwing her legs over his and folding herself into his lap, no longer able to resist. Nuzzling her nose into the space at his neck and shoulder, she tried to memorise his smell, breathing him in.

He may have tired himself out because he was now slower to respond: his arms came up gradually to hold her to him, his hands rubbing light circles on her back.

"I'll miss you," she choked out into his shoulder, bunching the fabric of his dressing gown under her chin. "I'm sorry we never got to…"

_Have more moments like this. Have more than one morning together. Have this life together. _

All of them were equally impossible to say without losing control and she would not spend these irreplaceable minutes crying. So she just buried her face in his dressing gown, shaking her head.

"Oh, Clara…" he murmured, one hand moving up to stroke her hair, his touch almost reverent. "I'm so sorry."

Now she pressed kisses to his neck, moving up to his jawline, needing to kiss every inch of skin available to her while she still could. "It's okay." She placed feathery kisses on his cheeks, his forehead, the tip of his nose, before leaning into his face. "Just – just kiss me."

Perhaps he was preparing himself for the inevitable because he seemed to hesitate. But Clara would not waste another second and she crushed her lips to his, her arms winding about his neck, expecting an equally impassioned response.

Something was wrong. Or – off. His lips were supple but uncertain, and when she tried to pry them open with her tongue, there was almost a shake to them that was –

She suddenly pulled back, looking him in the eyes. He looked sad, but not distraught, his emotions no longer etched in deep lines across his face. Clara's eyes widened. "Doctor?"

He gave her a weak smile that immediately turned sheepish. "Hello."


	21. Chapter 21

***See end for Author's Note**

Clara flew off his lap like it had burned her, breathing hard. "When did he…?"

Of course. The sudden need for a handkerchief. She closed her eyes, shaking her head. She should've known.

"Why did he…?" Her eyes filled again.

The Doctor made some sort of apologetic gesture. "I…he thought it'd be easier this way."

"John thought it'd be…but I didn't even get to say goodbye…" Her tears threatened to spill over, and she bit her lip hard, not wanting to cry in front of the Doctor. "Wait – he – that means you…remember being him?" Her eyes widened, and she swallowed. "How much do you remember of the last two months?"

He still wouldn't meet her gaze. "How much do I remember?"

"Yeah," she went on, heart speeding up for a different reason. "You know – like – flashes? Days here and there? Or…maybe nothing? Complete blackout?" She may have sounded hopeful with the last idea.

"Um…" He swallowed, gaze darting back and forth across the floor. "Everything?" He winced.

Clara's mouth dropped open. "Everything. Everything as in – everything everything. As in everything including – this morning everything?" Her voice slid up in alarm.

His hands were getting restless. "Um – you'll have to be a bit more specific – a lot happened this morning. Do you mean the Family taking me hostage for the watch or the uh…before that?"

"Before that?" she practically squeaked.

"Oh…well…yes. I remember everything, including…that."

Her mouth went dry, her hands flying to the edges of her dressing gown, pulling it tightly shut. "Okay." Her voice sounded shrill to her ears. "Okay, that was…well, that was him, that wasn't…" Her throat constricted. "That was because he…"

_Thought he was my husband. Thought we were married. Thought I was his wife because he –_

"Because you…"

_Bollixed this up. Made me fall for him because you bollixed this up. And now you're wearing his face and none of this would've happened if you hadn't - _

She was still breathing hard. "Because you_ – you_…" She couldn't finish, she was so livid, and she wanted to jerk him up by the collar of his dressing gown and shake him and –

His head snapped up, meeting her eyes at last, his hands in a defensive posture. "I know – I know. I'll explain everything, I promise, Clara, but – but – seventeen minutes!"

"What?"

The Doctor shoved the – open – fob watch towards her. "The Family is returning in seventeen minutes, and we need to make sure we're ready for them. So -!" He finally stood up, grimacing as he did so. "Oh – well…" A flush crawled up his neck, finding its way to his cheeks. It looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. "Some – musclesthathaven'tbeenusedinawhile. So – what do we have, then?" He dashed about the room, his face lighting up as he collected items in a whirl. "Laptop! And…" He ran back to the living room, scooping up the radio. "Um - radio! Excellent! Now…" He opened the laptop, his fingers scurrying over the keys. "That was a brilliant stall tactic, by the way – loved that! HADS – Hostile Alien Defense System, ha! Though of course, it stands for something completely different, and it's actually a way for the TARDIS to protect herself; not the other way around, but they didn't know that, eh? Oh – do you have the sonic?"

Clara reached into her dressing gown pocket and handed it to him wordlessly, slapping it into his hand.

The Doctor recoiled a bit, then brightened as he palmed his beloved device. "Oh, how I've missed you!" He cooed at it, stroking it and kissing it loudly before aiming it at her laptop.

"What are you doing?" She couldn't keep the slight edge out of her voice.

"Calling the TARDIS," he replied. "You were right – I wouldn't have left you here completely defenseless."

"I wasn't," she insisted, quick to defend John's honour. "You held your own. I mean – _he_ did."

"That was me." His voice was quiet. "I wouldn't have survived this long if I hadn't known how to break a chokehold." He considered something. "Mainly through distraction and – luck."

"And how about – killing that alien? Was that you, too? Or him?" She really couldn't resist goading him at the moment, especially if it kept her anger at a simmer.

He sighed, bowing his head. "That was me. They were threatening you, Clara, and I knew they'd be ruthless. I don't regret it." He continued typing, his voice dropping to a mumble. "One of the _only_ things I don't regret from the last two months…"

Clara let out a noise like she'd been punched in the stomach. It felt like she had.

His head shot up, panicked look in his eyes. "I didn't mean - !" He squeezed his eyes shut, fists closing. "I didn't mean I regret everything else – I'm not saying that –"

"No," she cut him off, shaking her head, her ire freezing over. "No, it's – it's fine. It's better that I know. Now I…know."

That nothing was real. That it had been a sham. That it had all been a fantasy, exactly as she'd thought.

Exactly as she'd feared.

He was waving his hands so fast they were almost shaking. "No! You don't! That isn't what I –" Her laptop beeped, and he looked torn between attending to it and her. "Ah – fourteen minutes. I've got to complete this so the TARDIS can lock onto our position, but we _will_ talk about this, I –"

"Actually, I think I'd prefer if we didn't," she said quietly. The Doctor gave her a pained look as she headed for the stairs. "If the TARDIS is coming, then I should change and…pack." Then she shot up the stairs, ignoring whatever his protests might be.

Entering her room, her gaze was drawn immediately to her bed, sheets still rumpled from their -

_No._

She wouldn't do this. She wouldn't sit on the bed like she was doing now and trace the imprint his head had left on her pillow. She wouldn't bring the pillow to her nose and breathe his scent in, eyes falling shut as her hot tears spilled over. She wouldn't wrap herself up in the sheet, pretending she could still feel John's arms around her. She wouldn't torture herself, and yet…

This was it – all she had now. This bed and her memories.

The sound of the Doctor's footsteps on the stairs roused her and, wiping the tears off, she set about to busying herself with rifling through the contents of her 1940's wardrobe.

She heard him skid into the room. "Ten minutes," he informed her back.

"Okay. I'll be ready."

When he didn't leave after a few seconds, she finally turned and saw –

John. _No –_ the Doctor. Eyes raking over the bed like he was viewing the scene of a gruesome crime: something horrific and confusing and sad. When they finally met hers, there was the briefest flash of…something before he pressed his lips into a thin line. "You'll be ready?"

Clara folded her arms. "I said I would."

He nodded once, turning and fleeing the room like it _was_ the scene of a crime.

Clara ripped off the closest dress and quickly changed into it, her teeth clenching. Then she surveyed the rest of the dresses, fingers brushing over them until she came to the red dress that had made John –

She closed her eyes, taking a steadying breath. Thank God she was leaving this place.

Her fist bunched at it, and she yanked it from the hanger, quickly rolling it into a ball and tucking it under her arm. Then she knelt at the side of the bed, pulling out the satchel and stuffing the dress inside. Slinging it over her shoulder, she took one last look before closing the door behind her.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw that the TARDIS was now standing in their living room. The Doctor had changed back into his normal clothes and was sat with the radio on the sofa, sonic in hand.

Clara approached him. "That's already fixed – remember?" She refused to talk to the Doctor like he'd been John. Made it easier somehow.

"For sound quality, yes. I removed all of the Cantrapalladian parts that interfered with the sound, but _now_ - I'm replacing them because we're turning it back into an alien hoover!" He beamed at her.

Clara frowned. "Sorry – what?"

He was twisting wires again, making her heart writhe at the image. Good job he was in his tweed and bowtie or she might have had to retreat to the kitchen to keep from crying. "I returned to the shop with the intent to purchase the one you'd admired, but I didn't – I purchased this one instead." He patted it affectionately. "Something about it appealed to me, though I didn't know why, of course. But it was because there was a Cantrapalladian device inside! Which is sort of like a magnet. Well – not really a magnet. More like a hoover. Though - not really a hoover, either. But the point is – we can re-insert it for when the Family comes back and draw out the alien entities from the human bodies." He gave her one of those wide dopey grins that she used to love.

She crossed her arms again, arching an eyebrow at him. "And – that won't be a problem for you?"

"I'm not human." He was looking straight at her. As though she needed reminding.

Her jaw tightened. "I know. But – alien hoover. Won't that affect you?"

"I'm putting it on a timer – five minutes. We'll be gone by then."

She considered this, fingers digging into her arm. "How do you know they'll be back?"

"Because I do. You heard him – he's bringing the entire Queens Police Department with him to throw me in prison and clap you in the madhouse." There was a slight edge to his voice.

Now her fingers drummed. "What if they come back but don't come inside? Will it work then?"

He fixed her with a look. "No, but – I know they'll come inside."

"What if they don't? They come back but see we're not here."

"Clara –"

"Will they follow us again then?"

"No, I'll make sure they –"

"Will we have to hide again?"

"Of course not, I wouldn't –"

"Have to do this all over again?"

"No, I would never make you –"

"Will this _all_ have been for _NOTHING_?!"

She was breathing fast, furious tears pricking her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. He would _not_ see her cry.

The Doctor clapped his hands together in prayer position, raising them to her. "I know that you don't trust me right now, Clara, but –" He pressed his forehead to his hands, letting out a sigh. "I'm begging you - just give me five – no – _four_ minutes. Four minutes, and then you can ask me anything you want. Anything at all. I promise."

She stared at him hard, willing the tears back into their ducts. She nodded once, turning from him and moving towards the kitchen, to give her some space if nothing else.

"Are you going to take that with you?" He asked, falsely cheery.

Her typewriter. She might've considered it, but his exuberance was a bit much at the moment. "No," she decided.

"But it was your constant companion! And it was there for you all those times when I…wasn't," he finished lamely.

Her hands balled into fists at his mention of the days of their Cold War – no, not _theirs_- hers and John's. She could've shouted something at him about _never_ referring to things they'd done together using any first-person pronouns, but it would've come out all jumbled and she didn't trust herself to speak at the moment anyway. So she bundled up the stack of carefully typewritten pages from the last two months and stuck them in her satchel. Her fingers brushed over the keys of her typewriter, and she found herself sitting in the chair as she had on so many a night, when the only sound had been the constant stream of music from the radio. Like that night John had asked her to dance to his favourite –

"If you're worried about space, you can keep it in the TARDIS." He stood by its open doors now, with that eager-to-please look on his face, her laptop tucked under his arm. "As a souvenir."

She was losing her battle fast, and so she distracted herself by grabbing the typewriter, its heft cutting her wedding ring into her finger. "Done?"

"Yes, everything's ready." His wringing hands betrayed his nervousness.

"Good." She breezed past him, stopping before the open TARDIS doors, her back to the rooms she'd called home for two months. She wanted to turn and give it all one last look, say a proper goodbye, but she could feel the weight of his expectant, anxious gaze on her. And she knew it wasn't from the threat of the aliens' imminent return.

"I can switch for you, if you like."

She whipped her head back at him, eyes wide. "What?"

"It looks heavy." He indicated her typewriter, arms extending her laptop. "Do you want to trade?"

She blinked at him, uncomprehending, knowing that he wasn't asking what it sounded like.

"I can take it," he insisted, as if relieving her of this small burden would fix everything. He was being chivalrous, and he was _never_ chivalrous like this. Only John was this chivalrous, and it made her want to –

"You can take me home."

She pushed past him, hoping he questioned whether she meant permanently or not.

At this point, she honestly didn't know herself.

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***Author's Note: **Oh, you amazing readers, you – _41_ reviews for the last chapter?! :-D Holy mother of all that's good and – WOW! Just for that, I'll speed up the amount of time between when I post the penultimate and the last chapter. So again a massive THANK YOU to all who not only follow, favorite and give feedback – but also to those of you who are darlings and have rec'd this on tumblr. You guys are ABSOLUTELY FANTASTIC. :D


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Quick Note: **_45_ reviews for ONE chapter?! Oh, you guys are amazing, so here – half a day earlier than I promised you. See end for more notes, but in the meantime – enjoy!

* * *

Stopping inside the console room, she heard him shut the doors behind her, and then the familiar sounds of the TARDIS whirring to life, whisking them away from 1948 New York. Though she intended to go straight away to her room and not emerge until he'd dropped her back at the Maitlands, she was arrested on the top step by the inconvenient fact that she couldn't remember where her bedroom was, and, even if she had remembered, that the TARDIS may have moved it again. And whilst she had resisted the Doctor's offer to take the typewriter off her hands, it actually _was _heavy and she didn't want to carry it through endless corridors on the hunt for her bedroom. So she set it on the floor, debating whether she could find it on her own without asking. It was then that the Doctor's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Clara?"

Jerking around, she saw he was standing a few feet from her. She turned to hide her face from him. "I'm just – gonna go change."

"Will you miss him?"

She gripped the railing, biting down on her lips to prevent her answer from undoing her. "Yeah."

"I'm so sorry. I never meant for-"

"Don't." Her voice was sharp, the only warning he'd get.

"Clara, if you can just let me explain –"

She whirled around on him, the dam released, a flood of words hitting him fast and furiously. "You know – I've seen everything you've done – a thousand years of you, I've seen you let creations burn and walk away from wars where people died; I've seen you kill people and make bad decisions and leave people behind and I've seen you commit genocide – twice. But if there's one thing I'd never seen you be – if there was one thing that I didn't think you could…I _never_ knew you could be cruel."

Her accusation clearly stung him. "I know – I'm so sorry, I –"

"You thought I was your _wife_! You thought we were married! You told me not to let you fall in love, and I tried - I tried so, so hard to resist you, but you got on your knees and you _begged_ me! To come back to _our_ home - sleep in _our_ bed, you wanted to try to for a baby -!" She had to break off to take a breath.

"Clara –"

But she couldn't stop now. "And I tried to keep away – I tried everything – you gave me a few days with the _affair _– I tried to keep my distance, then, but you were _relentless_! And then you were cold, and you were an arse to me even though I was all alone - I didn't have anyone but you, and you wouldn't even let me talk to you because _I wasn't being your wife_!"

He closed his eyes, perhaps against his shame. "Clara, if I can just –"

"And so I gave in…" Her torrent had petered out, her voice quieter. "I gave in…I knew it wasn't real, I knew it was..." She wouldn't even let herself think the word "fantasy," but the tears fell down her cheeks anyway, unable to be stoppered any longer. She shook her head, her thoughts coalescing. "I never thought…because I'd seen everything you'd ever done - I never thought you could do anything…to make me hate you."

She regretted it the moment it left her mouth, the effect was so tangible on him. He leaned back like she'd physically slapped him, exhaling as if she'd knocked the wind out of him. He'd gone preternaturally still, eyes falling shut. "Okay…so…I don't expect you to ever forgive me for…what I put you through, and I understand if you want to leave, but…there is one thing you must know."

She sniffled, wiping at her tears again. "What?"

He looked at her steadily. "It was real."

She scoffed at him. "I'm sure it felt that way. Made a good job of it."

"No, I'm not saying it felt real…I'm saying it _was_ real."

He looked earnest, but he often looked earnest when he said nonsensical things. "I don't –"

"Think - where did I get the rings from?"

"What?" She huffed. "I dunno – the jewelers or – somewhere – why does it matter?"

"No. You saw them before, remember?" His expression lightened a bit. "When did you _first_ see them?"

She shook her head, annoyed. "I dunno, I saw that sack on your…on the first day. The day we got there."

"The rings were inside the sack already. I only took them to the jewelers to get them re-sized." He looked at her expectantly.

She tried to follow the flow of his unspoken logic. "So you …you brought them with you - you…" She looked at him, gobsmacked. "You _planned_ this?"

"Planned _for_ it. It wasn't…" He let out a helpless-sounding sigh, getting restless. "Nothing ever goes according to plan, of course…"

"No – hang on. You _planned_ – on thinking you were married to me?!"

"I thought it'd be easier," he mumbled.

"WHAT?"

He started gesturing, clearly relieved to be able to explain. "Last time, I had the TARDIS build me a completely new identity. This time…I didn't. Instead of burying my memories, thoughts and feelings, I had them kept close to the surface, only wiping out the traces of timey-wimey and spacey-wacey – no need to confuse a human mind. Oh – also made sure I didn't have the dreams like last time, too – it was far too confusing. And it worked! Well…apart from…everything else." He looked at her pleadingly. "I promise you, Clara, I thought it'd be easier. I did it so you wouldn't have to learn a new me – because I'd still _be_ me. Just human."

She shook her head, uncomprehending. "What are you saying?"

He started fidgeting, clearly uncomfortable at having to explain further. "I suspected that when I awoke as a human, I would need…a reason. For…what I thought of you."

"A reason? But…I was supposed to be your friend, that's what we said. We _agreed _on that, remember?" Her ire flamed anew again.

He had become extremely interested in his shoes. "Yes, but…at the last minute I realised that there was a distinct possibility that I would…_not_ think you were my friend when I woke up as a human. And so, because of social conventions in the 1940's, I took the rings. We'd pretended to be a married couple before – I didn't think it'd be a problem! It was _supposed_ to make it easier, not more difficult." His hands grabbed at each other. "I never meant for…any of that."

Blood was starting to rush to her head. "Why would you think I wasn't your friend?"

He started gesticulating again. "Humans have…hormones; humans have…pheromones, and dopamine and oxytocin and all sorts of humany things that I don't. An extremely complex chemical makeup of things going on in a human body in response to a variety of stimuli. I thought that, perhaps, once I had them…" He scratched at his face, gesturing vaguely in her direction.

Clara pursed her lips, climbing down the last steps to the floor. "So…you're saying that because you thought you'd fancy me once you turned human that you needed to make sure it was what? Sanctioned? Socially acceptable?"

He wouldn't look at her. "You know what I'm saying," he muttered, his thumbs worrying over his fingers.

"No, I don't. Not until you say it." She could feel herself trembling.

Her proximity seemed too much for him, and he hid his head behind his hand, sighing. "Remember how I told you not to let me fall in love?"

"Yes."

"That was mostly a warning." He looked at her guiltily now. "A warning that…this would all be over. I never wanted to be the creature responsible for killing the man someone loved again. As for me…" It looked like it took every ounce of will power he had not to flee the room. "I suppose I didn't realise…that there was no chance of me falling in love."

Her heart was beating double-time. "Why?"

"Because…" All of a sudden his flailing stopped, his expression changing into something serene and wondrous. "Because…I already…was." He said it like a revelation.

She was speechless.

He continued softly. "Everything I said - everything I did – that was _me_, Clara, me as a human – a human Doctor. Me with hormones and pheromones and neurotransmitters and extremely volatile humany emotions, but…_me_." He spread his hands to emphasize his "me-ness."

Everything he said. Everything he did. John, her human Doctor. And yet…

"But…what about River?" Her voice shook, and she cleared her throat. "Why did you think you'd had an affair?"

He grimaced. "That was unfortunately one of those times where my humany brain added two plus two and came out with seven hundred-ninety-eight-point-three."

Clara screwed her face up at him. "Sorry?"

"My guilt," he explained. "Wrongly assigned – plus my memories. When I woke up, I felt guilty about having hidden something from you. Then I had all my memories of River. But with you there, staying in another room, the wedding rings, and how my marriage with River would've seemed like more of an affair by 1940's standards – because I'm a human with a completely stupid humany brain, I link the two together and conclude – infidelity. "

Her mind was spinning, struggling to pull all the pieces together. "And how about…all the silences and how you avoided me? Was that because of your brain, too?"

He started to squirm again. "No, that was…" His eyes met hers a moment before skidding away. "That was hormones, unfortunately. And – pheromones, probably."

"What do you mean?"

He gestured awkwardly. "Whenever you were in the room …_things_ would happen! It was very distracting and - uncomfortable. And I never really knew what to do about it, so I figured it would be best if I just avoided you altogether so as not to repeat the…kitchen incident. Or well – my reaction to it." His eyes widened, possibly from embarrassment or shock at the memory.

She crossed her arms, fingers tapping, hands itching to smack him. "Hang on – you avoided me…for _weeks_ just because you…were _horny _all the time?!"

His gesturing became comical. "I didn't know what else to do! I'd never had hormones before and didn't know how to deal with them…" He sighed dramatically. "And it would lead to – _thoughts_ and other _feelings,_ and I didn't know how to make them go away! But also…" His voice was softer now. "It wasn't just – _that_, Clara. I wanted – that, yes, but…but it was you. I wanted you. And I suppose I felt…rejected?" His voice slid up on the word like he was trying it out. "Yes, I suppose that's what that was. It was uncomfortable physically, but emotionally, it….hurt."

Clara quietly marveled at how the experience might actually have changed him: she'd never heard the Doctor be so vulnerable. Talking about thoughts and feelings.

"Those last few weeks, I'd convinced myself that you didn't love me anymore, and I couldn't understand why you didn't just…leave. Not that I wanted you to!" He held his hands up as if to stop her from thinking that.

Clara let out a noise of frustration. "You daft idiot – I never _stopped_ loving y-…him."

He had suddenly gone very, very still. She wasn't sure if he was breathing.

He'd said it had all been real for him. Was he waiting for her to say the same?

Was he actually that daft?

"You." Her heart pounded in her ears. "I never stopped loving…you."

He came to life again, his features softening into an expression she had only ever seen John give her. Making her start to believe that what he said was true.

She regarded him for a moment, wondering how she could broach yet another delicate subject. "But…everything you said, everything you…_did_ – that was you?" She looked at him expectantly, willing him to understand her meaning.

"Yes," he agreed, nodding emphatically. Then he blanched. "No! Not the – _eugh_- apples!"

"Apples?"

He started pulling at his tongue with his fingers, as though he could extract the things it had touched. "Aaah – apples! Nasty things! And bacon and – _beans_! And – _EUGH _ - that cigarette! I can still taste it!" He shuddered theatrically, pointing at his tongue. "I helvtet ate thiz thingas en cuthud fuha lunth!"

She'd forgotten how utterly mad he could be, and she guffawed in spite of herself. "What was that again?"

He closed his mouth. "I'll have to eat fish fingers and custard for a month to get the taste out! So – no, nothing I put in my mouth, nothing my tongue touched – none of that was me!"

Clara felt her cheeks grow hot, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She _really_ didn't want to ask this, and yet… "Nothing?" She managed to eke out, steeling herself for the answer.

His eyes widened cartoonishly, mouth forming a circle. "Oh. Uh…well…no, that was…that is – it was all…" Just then there was a beeping sound from the monitor, making him spin about and rush towards it as though it was his salvation. Which it sort of was at the moment. "Ha! Looks like it worked – do you want to see?"

Clara let out a small sigh of relief, secretly thankful for the momentary reprieve from the most awkward conversation she could ever have imagined with him. Moving over next to him, she was careful to keep a few inches between them and peered at the screen.

There was a black and white view of their living room from the vantage point of inside the radio. The house was teeming with dozens of policemen, who were searching the rooms with guns poised, shouting to each other. Several of them, however, were crowded around the skinny one's body, which was disintegrating into the carpet like the burly one's had done. The view of the screen rocked slightly, like something was trapped inside, furiously trying to escape.

"Will that hold it?" She asked worriedly.

The Doctor grinned at the screen, letting out a self-satisfied chuckle. "Oh yes, not to worry – Cantrapalladian magnets were known throughout the Teclaru system for their exceptional stickiness." He shut off the monitor, swinging it off to the side, and beginning to flick switches with vigour. "Now –"

"Doctor?"

"Yes?" He spun around, back to the console, as if he was surprised to see her there. Or standing so close to him.

She swallowed. "You said I could ask you anything."

His fidgeting manifested in his hands stealing over the console, as if she might not notice. "Oh. I did, didn't I?"

"Yes. And you didn't answer my question."

"Oh. Right…" _Click…click. Click click…click click. _"What was the question again?" _Click click click…_

She placed her hands on his shoulders, stilling his movements immediately. Mustering every ounce of courage within her, she hoped her voice didn't shake too much. "I need to know…this morning, the – things we did – the things _you_ did…was that you? Or was that just hormones and pheromones and – human chemicals?"

He had quite possibly looked less terrified in the face of a planet-sized hungry god, but at least he wasn't moving away. He stared at her, eyes like saucers, mouth slightly ajar. He swallowed.

Perhaps it wasn't the question that he feared, but the answer.

"That was…me," he croaked. "Me as a human – me with human chemicals, but…me." He gave her a tentative smile, as though he wasn't sure if his answer was acceptable.

Heart pounding in her ears, Clara started brushing a light fingertip over one of his lapels. "So…is that something, then…would you want something like that to – happen again?" She looked steadily at him, hoping he wouldn't notice that she was practically holding her breath.

"Um…" He glanced down at her finger, then back at her before skittering away, the wheels in his head visibly turning. A slow smile broke onto his face, like a thought was settling into his brain and he liked the feel of it. "Yes…?"

"Yes?" She hoped her voice didn't sound breathy.

His smile continued to grow, his eyes soft and warm, with a glimmer of heat behind them. He let go of the switches and slowly moved his hands to her waist, the pads of his fingers a light pressure. "Yes."

They stared at each other, spark igniting into a flame, when all of a sudden they were jolted apart by the familiar feel of the TARDIS landing.

"Ah!" The Doctor cried, rubbing his hands together. "We're here!" He flashed her a grin, turning and dashing to the doors.

Flustered, Clara stretched a hand out to him. "Wait!" She ran to catch up with him, stopping several feet from where he'd promised to drop her off. She knew that she needed to get back to the Maitlands, but _now_…

"I'm not ready to go home yet," she admitted in a rush.

His hand on the handle, he bowed his head and emitted a low chuckle.

"And – you said I could ask you anything – remember?" She hurried to remind him, stalling.

His shoulders heaved with a long breath, as if he was preparing himself for her questions. Then he spun on his heel, hands behind his back. "Yes." He had that tone like he was demonstrating just how _endlessly_ patient he could be.

Clara's mind raced for something relevant. "Oh. Oh – Amy and Rory! Why didn't we go back to see them? I mean…didn't you _want_ to see them again?" Her tone turned gentle.

He gave a rueful smile. "I did see them again. That was the only part of the plan that worked, actually –even if it was a shot in the dark."

"Part of the plan?" She tilted her head at him, understanding dawning on her. "You chose New York…for them. And the year, too?"

"That's why we weren't in Manhattan – the TARDIS never could have landed there, but we were just far enough outside that we could. And yes, since they were sent back to sometime around 1939, I chose a year after the war but before the 1950's."

"But…you really didn't want to - I don't know – just see them one last time?"

"No," he answered quickly. He pressed his lips firmly together. "I got to say goodbye. That's more than I normally ever get." He smiled wistfully. "And I got to see that they were happy. That they'd moved on. Amy and Rory – together. As they should be." His look got far away, nostalgia taking over. Then he snapped himself out of it, brightening a little. "Ready?" He pushed himself off the door as if to turn around.

Clara held up a hand in reflex. "One more!"

He sagged against the doors, letting out an exasperated sigh. His knees jittered restlessly. "One," he said with finality.

Clara opened her mouth, but her words stuck. She had so many more questions…

_So you said that this morning was real, and that you want it to happen again, but how will it be different? And if everything else is real, then what does that mean? That you really love me? Where is this going? _

"The story I was writing – you said things about it." It was the closest thing she might get to answering all of her other questions.

The Doctor hummed, smirking at her. "You mean the story you were writing about us?"

For some reason, the way he said "us" made her heart skip a beat. "Well, yeah, that's just it. You said – you _insisted_ – that I was writing a love story. Was that – was that you as John? Trying to win me back? Or was that you?"

He smiled. "Both. Yes, I was trying to win you back. And…yes. That was me."

"But – I mean – if that was you, then that's what you think? Is that…what this is?" Her thumb nervously prodded at the wedding ring still on her finger.

The Doctor looked down a moment as if to collect his thoughts. Then he pushed himself off from the doors, walking slowly towards her, his hands clasped in front of him. "What else…" he began, his voice soft, "could this possibly be?" He spread his hands wide, and Clara couldn't help thinking it looked like an invitation to embrace him.

Her eyes shined up at him. "So-"

"Clara." He placed a finger against her lips. "One of the things you'll discover about me if you haven't already is - I've _always_ had a preference for showing, not telling." His eyes sparkled in a way she hadn't seen in months. "For instance…" He turned and finally pulled the door open.

Clara gasped at the view before her.

_Oh, my stars…_

* * *

***Author's Full Note: **Sooooo….I'll take any and all reactions. :-p Any questions, thoughts, concerns, further accusations? Am I still Moffat now? It's okay if you still hate me for purposely misleading you for so long. ;) Keyboard smashes are also completely acceptable if I've blindsided you. :-p And any guesses for where the Doctor might be taking her?

And again, a gigantic THANK YOU to all who follow, favorite and leave me that wonderful feedback. I didn't get to reply to all your reviews this time, dear readers – but I figured you'd rather have received an email telling you the story was updated than a PM from me. :-p But you guys, as ever, are all FANTASTIC. :D


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: **_I just wanted to let all of you, my dear readers, know that I have absolutely loved writing this story. When I started it at the end of May, I never imagined that it would turn into what it did. I was in love with the concept and what I was creating, but I never knew that I could grow to love it even more by hearing about what emotions, thoughts, feelings, etc. it inspired in all of you. And honestly, it changed because of that. Even though I kept up a pretty regular rate of posting a chapter once I was 3 chapters ahead, I would add lines here and there to already-written chapters because of what I heard from you guys. So I just wanted to thank you for going on this journey with me – for putting up with my ridiculous cliffhangers and Moffat-like methods – and for making it this far. When I started this story, this final chapter didn't exist. But because of you – because of what I heard and saw along the way – this chapter came into being. So basically – this chapter is because of all of you. And I thank you for it. Because without you, I would never have known how this story was supposed to end. _

_-DV_

* * *

Ruby, rose and mauve swirled around gold, amber and clementine, which in turn circled and faded into evergreen, emerald and even azure, cerulean, and lapis. It was like someone had taken a handful of the most precious jewels, smashed them, and smeared their dust across the sky. She walked up a step further, seeing yet more lilac, lavender and magenta, and colours she didn't have a name for, that maybe hadn't been invented yet – all sparkling and shimmering, shining and winking. There was nothing but colour as far as the eye could see – no ground; no up; no down – just endless jewel-toned luminescence against a pitch black sky.

Tears sprang up to her eyes as she grappled with words adequate to describe what she was seeing. Leaning her head against the wall, she breathed out a sigh of wonder. "It's…what is it?"

"The Luminescence of Urdcutl – well…technically, anyway." He walked forward a step, then cautiously stuck his toe outside the TARDIS into space.

"Doctor -!" She instinctually reached a hand out to pull him back in.

"No need to worry," he replied, his toe feeling about as though testing for something. A grin broke onto his face. "Ah yes. Perfect!" And he walked out the door completely, Clara calling out in alarm.

He turned where he was, hanging there. Or…not. It was as though he stood on an invisible floor, albeit one that kept rocking him slightly, like there were the gentlest waves underneath his feet. He bounced on his toes a bit, which seemed to have the effect of turning the waves spongy, making him rise a few inches into the air. "Haha!" He rubbed his hands together. He came back down slowly, landing softly on wherever the...invisible water-like floor was. He beckoned her with a wave of his hand. "Well, come on, then!" His tone was coaxing rather than demanding.

He didn't seem to be floating away or fighting for air, so Clara stuck out one toe gingerly, feeling definite resistance, as though there really were a floor there. She tapped it, and like it had appeared with the Doctor, the waves became spongy, sending her foot higher. Bracing herself against the door, she extended her other foot, letting go with a tiny squeak at…standing in space.

Blimey, had it really been that long?

She bounced on her toes as the Doctor had done, letting out a giggle as she floated into the air. Looking around her the view was even more breathtaking than from inside the TARDIS - a panorama of someone's decision to splash every known colour across the sky, and then sprinkle it with glitter. She held a hand out, expecting to meet with clouds or gas or something, wanting to feel it sift through her fingers, but it was only air.

"We're inside the box, so we can't feel them. Actually – we couldn't feel them even if we weren't inside the box because they're only gasses. Also if we weren't inside the box we wouldn't be breathing –"

"So it's a box, then? That's why we can – stand?"

"Well – I say a box, but it's not really a box. But if you like – think of a box."

"And what's in the air – why does it…?" She bounced again, unable to prevent her lips from curling into a smile when it sent her into the air.

"Ah! That's half-gravity. Well…not really half – more like a third and –"

"And what about the floor?" She walked a bit, letting herself feel the slight rocking, then spun on her toes and was surprised to discover the "floor" became solid and slippery, making her flail her arms out to keep from falling. "What happens if I fall?" She called out, her voice high-pitched and breathless.

"Nothing!" He walked over towards her. "You land on the floor. So, maybe not nothing – whatever happens if you fall and land on a floor. A bump? Bruise? Actually, no – it would probably just bounce you right back up again."

Regaining her balance, she couldn't seem to stop smiling. "So – the – floor – becomes slippery if you try to spin or slide on it, then?"

"Yes. Sort of like a mini wave pool, ice skating rink, bouncy castle and half-grav all in one, depending on your state of motion. That's why this is a popular destination for kids – mainly birthday parties." He beamed at her, watching her spring up into the air, giggling as she floated down again. "But after being in that house for so long, I thought you might enjoy a bit of – freedom. And fun."

Her smile became softer as she regarded him. "It's perfect."

"Ah! Not yet." He withdrew his sonic, aiming it back at the TARDIS and all of a sudden, "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree" sounded forth tinnily from inside.

She laughed, clapping her hands, which she continued as she started to sway to the beat, then sliding, jumping, bouncing, floating - taking advantage of all of the various aspects that their kids'-box-in-space provided them.

The Doctor was dancing as well, seeming to enjoy the sliding the most, taking every opportunity to let his coat tails flare out. Otherwise, his "dancing" was more akin to a spooked baby giraffe, his limbs never staying in the correct places or keeping much of a rhythm. He flapped his way over to her, though, taking her hand and spinning her about, sending her sliding back, then sashaying up to her again and attempting a proper swing dance grip, grasping both her hands and basically throwing her so that she sailed through space, then bounced off the floor. He met her in mid-air, continuing to twist and spin her as they landed gently back down again, close enough so that she could see the way his eyes sparkled with the coloured lights swirling silently around them.

The song came to an end, and she stood there, wondering if she should say something or – do something. They were both breathing fast, and she wiped at a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, suddenly self-conscious at being so close to him.

He seemed at a loss for words as well as he gazed at her, one hand still holding hers, before dropping it and wiping his hands on his trousers. "Oh dear. We haven't done enough running lately, have we?"

She let out a small laugh, conceding his point. "No." She shook her head, wondering if he was waiting for something with the way he was looking at her.

Suddenly, another familiar tune started up, and Clara's eyes met his as the strains of "Sunrise Serenade" streamed into space. Her mouth dropped open. "This is…"

"One of my favourites," he finished, taking a step back from her, one hand going behind his back and the other extending to her, palm up, in wordless invitation.

Her breath caught at the familiar memory, and she grasped his hand, letting herself be pulled into a proper dance position, nothing to separate them now. He immediately placed their clasped hands over one of his hearts, and she let her head fall onto his chest, letting the double-thumping fill her ears. She felt them breathe together, a small sound of contentment escaping from her throat. "I missed this," she murmured.

She felt his thumb stroke her fingers and squeeze. "Missed what?"

"You. Knowing it's you." She sighed into his jacket. "I never knew what you wanted cause what you'd said and how you were as John were just – so different. I knew what John wanted, but…not you. So I never knew where you stood. Like – the last time we danced to this and you talked about wanting me to dance with you across the stars. It sounded like you, but…" She raised her head, looking around her as realisation dawned on her. "Wait – were you talking about this?"

He smiled knowingly at her, glancing about as though admiring his handiwork. "Or something like it." His smile grew. "There are lots of places to go dancing, of course, but this…I thought you'd enjoy it the most out of all of them."

Her smile matched his, and she was sure her eyes reflected the multitudes of coloured lights as well. "It's perfect," she said earnestly. "Thank you."

He gasped, shoulders rising as he smacked himself on the forehead. "Ahh! Not yet! I almost forgot the best part!" Digging in his pocket again, he aimed the sonic back inside the TARDIS, and soon, the music filled the air, like the circling stars or gasses had picked up the music so that if flowed between them, surrounding them with sound. The Doctor clicked the screwdriver again, adjusting the volume so it wasn't overwhelming, and slid it back into his pocket.

She thought her cheeks might break, her smile was so wide, and she shook her head incredulously at him. "Any more tricks up your sleeve?"

He smirked, pulling her in again. "Just one – though it needs another thirty seconds to take effect, so in the meantime…" He swept her across the floor as the music crescendoed, sending her spinning and then tugging her back, so her back was to him, his hands holding hers at her waist, and they swayed together. She could feel his breath on her neck, and she leaned back into him, eliciting what sounded like a whimper from him. Then he spun her out again before bringing her back towards him, raising her hands above her head and twirling her where she stood, again and again.

She wasn't sure she'd ever been happier. So she said so, letting him see everything she felt for him in her eyes.

His features softened, and there was a twinkle in his eye. "One more thing, remember? One more thing, and _then_ it'll be perfect." He turned his wrist inward, glancing at his watch. "Four…three…two…one. Look up."

As she did, the skies seemed to open above her, sending down a cascade of glittering, glimmering objects, like bits of stars raining down from the heavens. Lips in a wide grin from her gobsmacked ogling, she caught some of them on her tongue, dissolving and tasting like…like _sunlight_, if that was possible. What made contact with her skin seemed to harden for a moment, shaping into something jewel-like, before turning back into liquid again, slipping off and leaving a trail of sparkle on her arms and hands. She stepped back, head tilted up, arms spread to welcome it, certain she'd never experience anything like this again. "It looks like…" She began, watching the last of them trickle down from above before looking at the Doctor again –

Who was now knelt at her feet.

"Diamonds," she finished, breathless.

"Oh look…" His hands were cupped around something, and when he withdrew one, a single glittery, solid object shown in the centre of his palm. "I caught one." He raised it to her.

_You said it looked like diamonds falling from the heavens, and I offered to catch one for you. _

All of a sudden, John's words came back to her from that morning…

_I took you dancing…_

She inhaled shakily -

_All those brightly coloured lights that lit up the sky…_

- she looked at the object in his hand -

_And then when you looked up to watch them, I knelt down…_

- and tears sprang to her eyes as she stared at him open-mouthed, unable to speak.

He grasped her fingers. "Clara…I know that I can't give you everything I would've been able to give you when I was a human – when I was John." He smiled sadly. "I can't offer you the rest of my life – and I'm not even asking for the rest of yours. But…I can give you everything I know – and everything I am. I offer you all that's in my hearts – though you have both of them already."

She took another shaky breath, still speechless.

His thumb stroked her fingers. "You wanted to know where I stand. Well…it's here. At your feet. Asking you to pass through however much of your life you choose – at my side."

For the first time in two months – for the first time in a _long_ time – the tears that fell down her face were of joy. She struggled to find her voice. "How's forever?" She whispered. "Does forever work for you?"

He smiled softly at her and pressed a kiss to her hand.

She laughed through her tears, holding up her other hand to remind him of the band of gold still encircling her finger. "I'm already wearing a ring."

He rose slowly, reaching into his jacket pocket for his screwdriver. "This isn't for your finger." Then he placed his hands behind her neck, undoing the clasp on her necklace and sliding off her TARDIS key. Balancing the key on his palm, he placed the diamond-like object in the centre of its top, aiming the sonic so it regained its liquid form and melted into it. Then he pocketed his sonic, closing his hands around the key, so that it solidified once more. When he opened his hands, the diamond-like substance had fused into it, sparkling and shimmering. Grasping it between thumb and forefinger, he presented it to her. "Will you be my wife…" He paused, his lips forming something akin to a self-deprecating smirk. "…again?"

Despite her wet tittering sounds, she nodded, her smile radiant. "Yes."

He pressed the key to his lips before threading it back through the chain and replacing it round her neck, his smile brighter than all of the jewel-toned lights combined.

Then his stands stole up to her cheeks, and he leaned in, kissing her softly and soundly. It was different than kissing John; there was no immediate fire, nothing raw about it. Yet instead, it was somehow more intimate: he teased at her lips, pressing in and then pulling back, like he was talking to her, an endless stream of soundless words. _ IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou. _

When they finally broke apart for air, they leaned into each other, arms going round the other, no longer needing the excuse of a dance to simply hold one another. She laid her head on his chest, smile feeling like it would never leave her face, and breathed him in.

"You were wrong, you know," she murmured.

He hummed into her hair. "Hrm. What? No, I wasn't!" She felt him raise his head to look down at her. She waited, biting down on a snicker. "_Okay_ – what was I wrong about?" He asked in mock resignation.

She rubbed her hands over his back. "You said you couldn't have both, remember?"

"Oh. Right…when did I say that?"

"When we went to Central Park. You said you had to choose – that you could only have one. The name – or the heart."

"Hrm." She could feel him smile against her head. "Ah! You were wrong, too, though."

"What?" She pulled back, affronted. "What was I wrong about?"

He cupped her face affectionately. "You said this wasn't a love story."

Clara smirked, then placed a hand near her heart where her new TARDIS key lay, squeezing it meaningfully whilst holding his gaze. Her eyes shined up at him. "I was wrong."

He trailed a hand tenderly down the side of her face. "My…_darling_ Clara," he murmured, his eyes shining at her now, too. "So was I."

*_Fin*_


End file.
